


Fear and Consequences

by celosiaa, taylor_tut



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood, Gen, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Migraine, Nausea, Panic, Panic Attacks, Paranoia, Sick Character, Sickfic, Trans Martin Blackwood, Whump, a little pre-jonmartin on the side, unreality
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:42:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 38,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25579033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celosiaa/pseuds/celosiaa, https://archiveofourown.org/users/taylor_tut/pseuds/taylor_tut
Summary: They’ve stopped the Unknowing, everyone made it out alive, and the Entities are weakened.  Unfortunately, so is Jon.The Entities exact their revenge on the Archivist for spoiling their plans, each taking their turn to cause him pain.
Relationships: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 258
Kudos: 641





	1. The Buried

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! Based on a post from my tumblr, as well as a wonderful suggestion from @artnerdsarah, @taylor_tut and I are writing a collaborative series where Jon will suffer through a different kind of illness based on each one of the fears. 
> 
> First up, the Buried.
> 
> CW: illness, panic (non-graphic)

Until now—until this very moment—Jon thought he truly knew what it meant to stand in the wake of destruction. He thought he knew what it was like to be abandoned by people once considered friends, even if the abandonment was of his own making.

Until the moment that Martin will no longer meet his eyes.

“Devastated” doesn’t even begin to describe the feeling.

To be sure, he hadn’t been expecting the warmest of welcomes from the archival staff. Though they had managed to stop the Unknowing, they had quickly discovered that something still binds them supernaturally to this lightless old basement—and that “something” was likely to be Jon himself. The fact that he wasn’t dead or… _unmade_ like the entities apparently have been seems nothing short of a miracle. But Jon feels nothing like a walking miracle at the moment.

_Just work. Just focus, work, find Elias, and get them out of here._

He’s been sitting in his office for nearly an hour now, staring down the tape recorder and the pile of statements, wanting anything but to read one and feed whatever still remains of the Beholding. Perhaps that’s the worst bit of all—the knowledge that the Eye is still out there, requiring him to read the traumas and nightmares of others just for him to survive. He takes a deep breath.

_Just do it and get them home._

He flicks on the desk lamp, steeling himself for the task at hand. Already, he can feel a headache beginning to build behind his eyes, pulling at him to just rest his head on the desk and drop off to sleep. Something heavy and oppressive sits in his chest as he begins to read, pulling at his lungs, quickening his breath.

It _aches_. His very soul aches _._

He tips his head down and begins to read.

\---

It’s been hours since he’s stopped recording, and Jon still can’t bring himself to stand. What he’s been doing for all that time, he’ll never be sure—his own thought processes seem so very far from him now, swirling up and away with the plumes of dust illuminated by the warm glow of his desk lamp. 

_What time is it?_

Scrubbing a hand down his face, he frowns at the sheen of sweat that’s been building there. With disappointment, but not alarm, Jon reaches the conclusion that he’s most definitely coming down with something. This is evidenced by the fact that the incessant coughs pulsing from his chest had been what forced him to stop recording, whittling his voice down to nothing and leaving him gasping for air. Even now, it takes any bit focus that remains just to keep his chest moving, the very idea of coughing again exhausting him to the bone.

_Really should lie down_ , he thinks, the thought floating somewhere high, high above him. He grabs hold of it anyway, using the momentum to lift himself to standing. Bracing heavily against the armrests of his chair for support, he only makes it halfway upright before the room starts spinning wildly around him.

“Nngh,” he groans, pitching forward to lean against his desk, squeezing his eyes shut against the pounding in his temples. It takes everything in him to keep his trembling knees from folding beneath him as he desperately pants through this unbearable dizziness.

_Just breathe just breathe just breathe_

At last, the sickening swirling of colors around him eases enough to allow him to stand properly, still bracing one hand against the wall.

_I’m really not…not well,_ he thinks as he swipes another shaking hand over the renewed sheen of his brow.

The ache in his chest only deepens when he finds the rest of the archives abandoned, painfully making his way down to the cot.

_Martin’s cot._

_…Martin._

_Martin…could call him, maybe?_

_No, better not, better not, he’s so angry with me_

_…why is he so angry?_

_Why does it hurt like this?_

If a few tears spill down his cheeks as he collapses onto the blanket, the one that still smells so distinctly of _Martin—_ none but himself and the statements will ever know.

\---

“AAGH!”

_Crash._

Jon jolts to awareness at the sudden noise, propping himself up to half-sitting and staring at the sight before him in shock. 

_Wh…what…_

There stands Martin, bent over his knees, one hand clutched over his heart…and the shattered ruin of his favorite mug spilling over the floorboards.

_Oh god._

Jon looks down at once, the memories of the previous evening washing over him in a most unpleasant fashion. The humiliation of it all brings a deeper flush to his cheeks, and suddenly he can’t bear the idea that Martin has found him here, of all places, snuggled beneath his blanket.

“ _Christ_ , Jon! Nearly killed me! What are you doing here?”

_Oh god oh god_

Quick as he can, he swings his legs over the side of the cot, jerking his body upwards in a less than fluid motion—and immediately regrets it.

“Whoa, Jon? You alright?”

Jon can feel the blood draining from his face as the room begins to darken, lungs pulling him down with each painful inhale, and sways—

Right into Martin’s arms.

“Sit back down, Jon— just sit down, come on,” he soothes gently as he guides Jon back to the cot.

The guilt of it all is nearly enough to pull him down for good.

_Why are you kind why are you kind why are you kind_

Tim takes the opportunity to arrive in the doorway, having apparently heard Martin’s yelp and assumed danger.

“Martin? You okay?” he asks tensely.

“Fine, but Jon—”

Martin is cut off by a sudden bout of coughing, damp and churning and painful, bursting from Jon’s chest with such force as to push his body toward Martin’s kneeling form.

“Oh Christ—”

He distantly feels strong arms reaching up to brace him, preventing him from sliding off the edge of the cot as his vision darkens. 

“Jesus, what’s happened?” Tim demands, stepping forward.

“I-I don’t know, I just found him like this,” voice wobbling with timidity.

_Or worry?_

Jon doesn’t know, only that the coughing has stopped now, and that he’s got to focus on drawing as much oxygen as he can into his burning lungs.

“Hey,” Tim says sharply, snapping fingers in front of his face. 

_Has he been talking to me…?_

“What’s going on? How long have you been ill?”

“I haven’t,” Jon manages to choke out, unable to lift his gaze to meet Tim’s.

“ _Don’t lie to me,_ ” Tim hisses, leaning down.

“I-I’m not, I swear.”

“Tim—back up, now,” Martin demands, voice soft, but somehow very, very threatening. 

It sends a shiver up Jon’s spine.

Or perhaps that’s the fever.

_Do I have a fever?_

With a start, Jon notices that he’s suddenly got a thermometer in his mouth. 

_Must have…drifted off._

The beep from the device echoes through his head, throbbing painfully behind his eyes once again.

“ _Jesus,_ it’s 39.7,” Martin says in shock, worry laced thickly through every word.

_Please don’t worry_

_I don’t ever want you to worry_

Even as these thoughts cross Jon’s fever-addled mind, he can feel his lungs bubbling again, whatever horrible wetness that’s come to rest there threatening to breach the surface. He can’t help it—he feels like he’s drowning, the pained gasps doing nothing to supply him—he instinctively braces forward, a white-knuckled grip on his knees. 

“Talk to me, Jon. What’s going on?” Martin murmurs, planting a hand on his shoulder.

All Jon can do in response is pitch forward once again, vision fully shorting out this time as he coughs and sputters and gags for nearly a full minute. Panic rises in him as he finds himself unable to stop, growing dizzier and fainter with each passing second, yet his chest refuses to clear any of the debris it’s collected.

_Drowning drowning drowning drowning_

“Jon?”

There’s nothing for it now.

“Can’t—can’t—bre—” is all he can manage, inhaling with such desperate force that it very nearly topples him over.

“Okay, hospital, now,” Tim says from above, and the two of them reach beneath his arms, pulling him upwards—

Jon’s vision swirls into darkness.

\---

_Cold cold cold_

Everything is so cold, and something is dripping unpleasantly across his face. Jon can’t help but furrow his brow against it, protesting the existence of whatever it may be. Something about the motion of wherever he finds himself now nearly lulls him back to sleep, the gentle rocking of it pulling him down—

Until his entire body is shaken by an unexpected _BANG._

“Tim, slow down, for Christ’s sake,” Martin yells from somewhere nearby.

“If you haven’t noticed, I’m trying to get our _friend_ to the _hospital_ ,” Tim replies scathingly.

_…must be in a car._

_Who’s going to the hospital?_

He opens his eyes in worry, sweeping them around, only to find that his vision is all turned sideways—his head pillowed on something soft.

_Martin’s thigh._

_Oh god oh god oh god_

“Hey, there you are. You back with us?” Martin calls softly, leaning over into his eyeline with a gentle smile.

Jon only stares up at him in concern.

“Who’s goin’ t’the hosp’il?”

The slurred nature of his words alarms him, and he can feel his entire body tense in panic.

“Shh, it’s alright, just stay calm. _You_ are going to the hospital, Jon, but don’t worry. We’ve got you.”

With this soothing thought, Martin replaces what had apparently been a cold rag across his forehead, still dripping moisture off the end of Jon’s nose. For his part, Jon does his best to follow his instructions, sighing against the relief the coolness brings.

_It’s alright._

_I’m alright._

_Martin said so, so I am._

_It’s alright._

He closes his eyes again, willing the fever to drag him back down.

\---

“—up, Jon. Hey, you with me?”

Someone is shaking his shoulder roughly, drawing him back to unfortunate awareness.

“M’up, m’up,” he mumbles, not opening his eyes, feeling rather like a petulant schoolboy being awoken too soon.

The thought makes him giggle a bit. Or a lot, perhaps, based on Tim’s reaction.

“Alright, not worrying at all, thanks very much,” he says as he and Martin pull him from the car and support him between their shoulders, both having to bend down significantly to get the job done.

The sheer ridiculousness of it all only makes him laugh harder, before it morphs into a punishing coughing fit, doubling him over between the two of them.

“Not laughing anymore, huh?” Tim asks, somewhere between a joke and a grimace.

“It’s _not funny_ , Tim,” Martin hisses back, no humor in his tone.

Jon wishes he had any strength to reply, but can only focus on _breath in, breath out_ as they painfully make their way inside.

\---

A few hours later finds Jon half-listening to the doctor who’s telling him that he’s apparently got pneumonia, that he must have been ill for quite some time for it to be this bad, that he should have come to the doctor sooner. If he could just _focus,_ if he could just listen to what she was saying, maybe he could find a way to tell her that he hadn’t even been ill _yesterday—_

He finds that he cannot, and settles for trying to figure out if he needs to go to the chemist or not. Something to bring back to Tim and Martin, who might still in the waiting room, if he’s lucky.

_I hope they’re still in the waiting room._

The idea of trying to make it back home on his own is not one that he wants to consider.

“Mr. Sims? Did you hear what I said?”

Jon snaps back up to attention, lips closing around a hastily-stifled coughing fit. The doctor merely smiles back down at him, a kind and gentle face that he would hate to disappoint.

“S-Sorry, I—” he breaks off at once, lungs not allowing him the luxury of speaking at the moment. Ever so patiently, the doctor waits for him to finish, wincing at the depth of his desperate hacking.

“It’s quite alright—understandable with such a high fever, certainly. I was just explaining that I will send a prescription for antibiotics over to your chemist, and you should pick them up as soon as you leave. You should also pick up some fever-reducers while you’re there. Do you have anyone waiting for you outside?”

Pain entirely unrelated to the pneumonia flares in Jon’s chest.

“I’m…I’m not sure,” he mutters, dropping his gaze.

“Alright—well, we’ll see then. If not, just stop by the desk and they’ll call you a cab,” she replies, patting his shoulder in pity.

For once, Jon accepts it without even a sneer.

\---

Upon his return to the waiting room, Jon doesn’t even want to look up to see if Martin and Tim are still there. His face already burns about the fact that he is too dizzy to walk back on his own, having to be wheeled back out to the triage area instead. He does his best to hide it behind his overgrown hair.

_There’s no chance they’re still here. You’re fine, just call a cab and go home._

“Jon?”

Martin’s voice reaches for him like a beacon through the fog; like a sunbeam in a rainstorm, immediately flooding his body with relief. Looking up, Jon is overwhelmed with happiness that both Tim and Martin are still there, waiting for him, immediately standing upon his entrance and staring down at him in concern.

“You okay, mate?” Tim asks, his brow furrowed deeper than Jon’s ever seen it.

Tears spring to his eyes at once, overwhelmed with the expression of fond worry, and he desperately tries to swallow them down.

“Oh god, what’s happened?” Martin asks softly, kneeling in front of the chair with a quick glance up at the nurse and setting a hand on his knee.

“N-nothing, nothing, I…sorry, I’ve just got pneumonia,” Jon stammers quickly, swiping at his eyes in frustration.

“Oh, is it _just pneumonia_ then?” Tim replies, voice dripping with sarcasm.

_God, I’ve missed this._

Jon can’t help but huff out a laugh, which immediately jerks his body forward into more deep and painful coughs.

“Right, sorry, won’t make you do that anymore,” Tim mutters, bracing Jon’s back with his hand. 

Not trusting himself to reply, Jon merely gives a thumbs up.

“Could you walk between us if we held onto you?” Martin asks anxiously. “And do we need to stop at the chemist before we take you home?”

Jon nods in affirmation to both of these questions, lifting his arms for them to grab and pull him up out the chair. Martin gives a quick “thank you” to the nurse, who smiles patiently, and they set out towards the door.

Through the dizziness, through the fever, Jon’s mind wanders back to how thankful he is—and how little he deserves any of this. His eyes immediately begin to sting at the thought.

_God, **stop it**._

“Hey, you alright?” Tim asks gently, having noticed the way Jon has dropped his head down to his chest.

“Fine, fine, I—”

He stops himself.

_Honest. You’ve got to be honest._

“I’m just…thank you. For waiting for me,” he whispers, swallowing thickly at the lump burning in his throat.

“Aw, the fever’s made him into mush! Softened the heart of stone! Who ever would have thought?” Tim yells in delight, a broad grin spreading across his face.

“Come off it, Tim, he’s just trying to be nice,” Martin scolds, though the beginnings of a smile have started to creep up his face as well.

“Yeah, yeah, alright. But don’t expect this treatment from us every time, you bastard. This was only to stop you from dying.”

Jon can’t help but smile in return, and feel grateful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading! next up is the Corruption, written by the incredible @taylor_tut herself! hope you all enjoyed, and have a wonderful day <3
> 
> incredible artwork done by [@janekfan](https://janekfan.tumblr.com/)!! please go check out all their other wonderful artwork and fics!! <3


	2. Chapter 2: The Corruption

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The corruption: linked to feelings of disgust and revulsion, as well as fear of corruption, disease, and filth. It manifests as mould, bugs, rot, decay, and infection. I thought that the creeping, crawling, relentless itchy feeling of a bad skin rash would work nicely for this one, so I went with chicken pox.

Jon struggles to open the door of his office, a stack of files in his hands so tall he can’t see the floor around them, and promptly drops them all on the ground when a loud, “watch out!” in a voice he doesn’t recognize startles him. 

“Jesus--how in the world did a child get in here?” he demands upon coming face to face with the young girl, who he estimates is around seven or eight. 

“I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to make you drop all your papers,” she apologizes. Jon looks over to see two tiny hands, short fingernails covered in bitten-off pink nail polish, gathering papers. Well, there goes the hope of putting them back together in any semblance of order. 

“Thank you,” he mutters, taking them from her hands gently and setting them into a pile. 

“I didn’t mean to,” she repeats. He nods. 

“It’s quite alright,” he replies gruffly. “You’re lucky I didn’t swing the door into you; it’s awfully heavy.” 

She smiles. “My name is Sierra. What’s yours?” 

“Jonathan Sims.” He extends a hand to hers, which she looks at strangely for a moment before taking, giggling when he shakes it firmly and briskly. 

“You’re funny,” she squeaks, and before he can ask her how she means, Martin is hurrying through the hallway toward them.

“Sierra, there you are,” he sighs. “What did I say about running off?” 

“Sorry, Uncle Martin,” she apologizes in a rehearsed, musical tone. 

“Right.” Martin looks up and runs a hand through his hair. “Sorry, Jon. This is my neighbor’s daughter--I’m babysitting.” 

“We’ve met,” he replies. “What are you doing here? I thought you’d asked the day off.” 

“I forgot my wallet in my desk,” he explains. “And once I was there, I checked my phone, and there were a few calls I needed to return. And, well, I couldn’t very well leave Sierra in the cab, but I did ask Tim to keep an eye on her.”

“We’re playing hide-and-seek!” 

Jon scowls. “That’s a dangerous game to play here,” he says. “Sierra, you tell Tim that he’s in trouble next time I see him.” 

Her eyes light up and widen with excitement as she runs off toward the bullpen, shouting, “Tim! You’re in BIG trouble next time I see you!” 

Martin laughs, looking exhausted. “I had no idea you were so good with children.” 

He scoffs. “I’m not.” 

“Oh?” A genuine smile. “Well, Sierra seems to like you.”

“Martin, I’ve got no idea how to talk to a child.” 

“A likely story.” 

“I shook her hand.” 

“You _what?_ ”

With Tim trailing behind her, his wrist clutched in a small, authoritative hand, Sierra returns. Tim is trying not to laugh. 

“I’ve been told I’m going to jail?” Tim asks, prompting Martin to laugh even harder and Jon to glare.

“It’s not a joke, Tim.”

“Yeah, it’s not a joke, Tim!” Sierra assists. She crosses her arms to mirror Jon’s disapproving posture, pressed right up against his legs. 

“You know quite well we have dangerous artifacts in storage here. What if she’d gotten hurt?” 

“How do you suppose she’d have gotten into Artifacts storage?” he counters. “You need a key.” 

“Well, what about the Archives? She could have climbed a stepladder and fallen.” 

Tim’s lips quirk upward into a smile. “Right,” he concedes, a glint of humor in his eyes that Jon can’t stand. “I’ll be more careful next time.” 

“Good,” Jon snaps.

“Good!” Sierra chimes in. Martin and Tim have to turn away to compose themselves and Jon decides to let it go. 

“Alright, Sierra, I’ve got to get you back to your mum,” he says, motioning toward the door with his head. “Say goodbye to Tim and Jon.” 

“Aw!” she whines, and Martin rolls his eyes. 

“If we leave now, we can get ice cream on the way.” Sierra gasps loudly and turns around. 

“Mr. Tim! One more?” 

“Alright, alright,” Tim crumbles immediately. He picks her up under the shoulders and whirls her around twice in rapid succession, then ruffles her hair gently, all while she giggles wildly. Jon can’t completely bite down on the smile that elicits, but he’s gotten it under control by the time she’s back on the ground in front of him, beckoning him to kneel. Jon does. 

“Byebye,” she says sweetly, pulling Jon in for a hug. Jon’s hands hesitate awkwardly over her for a moment before he finally decides to pat her on the back stiffly until she finally releases him. As Martin carts her off with another apology and a, “see you tomorrow,” Tim helps Jon’s to his feet from his crouching position. He hovers--he’s been doing that lately. The pneumonia incident had really rattled all of them, but Tim especially, after the worms and the almost dying, had been taking it hard. Jon is still trying to navigate their relationship--still rocky from the paranoia, but healing; Tim still constantly suspicious that Jon is lying, but open to the idea that he isn’t. And now, with the added element of this constant weakness, this feeling of run-down exhaustion that doesn’t go away no matter how much sleep Tim urges him to get or how much tea Martin forces into him. 

“Good?” Tim asks, and Jon nods, smiling ever so slightly. 

“For the hundredth time, yes,” he insists. Tim rolls his eyes. 

“Well, sorry for being a bit concerned,” he bickers. “Considering you’re barely three weeks off the antibiotics from goddamned _pneumonia_ that sprung up out of nowhere.” 

“I know,” he replies, “but honestly, I’m feeling much better. We… we have all been under a tremendous amount of stress. I guess it’s got its repercussions. But the antibiotics worked; I’m fine now. Please, stop worrying.”

Tim takes a breath, then, eventually, sighs. “Alright. You do look better, and you’ve been getting around on your own more, lately. Haven’t been having to stop and catch your breath.” 

The fever had been gone for a month, and the cough for almost two weeks. He still takes a nap in the spare room during lunch some days, and he’s been arriving and leaving on time rather than pushing himself to work until all hours of the night, but he’s healed. He’s mostly healed. 

Tim’s trust is taking much longer to repair than his lungs. 

“After the world almost ended, I promised you no more lying. I meant it.” 

“Fine,” Tim finally concedes. “I suppose I’ll just have to take your word for it.” 

That, Jon thinks, was easier than he’d thought it would be. 

Two weeks later, Jon feels it again--the weakness, the shaky feeling settling deep in his bones. This time, he’s out to lunch--he’s been doing that, lately, as taking a 45-minute break for lunch usually ends up saving him time, in the long run, because no one has to come into his office to ask if he’s eaten or drank anything that day. The air conditioning in the shop seems to turn from pleasantly cool to uncomfortably cold in a matter of minutes, and he finds himself shivering despite his sweater. 

“Are you cold?” Martin asks, already shrugging out of his cardigan. Jon opens his mouth to dispute it, but shuts it again when Tim glances up at him. Normally, Tim skips these lunches because he finds it awkward to try to make conversation with Jon and act like nothing has happened, but when Martin suggested Tim’s favorite cafe--well, Tim likes pastries more than he hates forcing pleasantries. 

“I must be sitting under the vent,” Jon says sheepishly, allowing the soft fabric to be draped over his shoulders. “Thanks.” 

“Don’t mention it,” Martin replies. He glances at the line, then to Jon’s cane, and stands. “The line is long, and I know your leg isn’t--is sort of--bothering you? Because of the rain, so I can order for you. If you’d like.”

Jon can see Tim bracing himself for the worst, so he decides to scowl only a measured amount, and he even lets a bit of fondness creep in around the edges, though he’s not sure if that communicates. 

“I appreciate that, Martin,” he says, “but I’m not very hungry. Just go ahead and order for yourself.” 

Martin frowns. “Not hungry?” he asks. “It’s just--I haven’t seen you eat anything all day, and seeing as it’s already almost one in the afternoon, you should be—you’re not feeling ill again, are you?”

Jon rolls his eyes. “I’m just not hungry,” he snaps. “It’s a kind offer, but I’m fine. Please, just go ahead and get your lunch.” 

Martin and Tim share a look, but ultimately, shrug it off and head toward the line. 

In the silence, Jon realizes how tired he is. Despite that he’s getting more sleep than he’s probably gotten since college and that his body feels recovered from the pneumonia, sometimes he still has days that are difficult to push through. 

Perhaps he should look into counseling. 

He doesn’t even make an effort to pretend to play on his phone while Martin and Tim get their lunches--reading will only worsen the headache he’s been battling for the past hour, anyway. Instead, he rests his head on his hand and closes his eyes, focusing on trying to stop shivering beneath the cold air. 

“I know you said you weren’t hungry,” Martin’s voice startles him from a nearly-asleep daze, “but I brought you a muffin, anyway. You really should eat.”

It’s not worth arguing, and Jon doesn’t have the energy to do so, anyway. “Thank you,” he mutters.

He likes to listen to Tim and Martin chatter. The two of them have gotten rather close, and although he’s hardly paying attention as he picks at the blueberry muffin in front of him, he’s enjoying the company. 

God, when had he become that soft?

“What do you think, Jon?” Martin asks, dragging him out of his thoughts and making him realize that he’d been more or less dozing in his seat again. 

“Hm?” he asks, and this time, Tim looks a bit concerned.

“About replacing the old copier that keeps jamming,” he explains slowly. “You know, the topic we’ve been talking about for the past five minutes?” 

Jon hadn’t thought he’d been keeping that little track of the conversation, but apparently he has, because that doesn’t sound a bit familiar to him. 

“Oh,” he tries to cover lamely, “of course. Erm, I think it’s a good idea. I can… look at the budget.” 

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Martin asks. “You seem… spacey.” 

Jon scrubs his hand over his face. “I’m tired,” he admits. “Just one of those days, I suppose.”

“We’re at a cafe, Jon,” Tim rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “You could have gotten a coffee.” 

Jon wrinkles his nose at the thought. “I’m not a coffee person.” Though it might be nice to hold something warm in his hands. 

“Well, if you’re sure, I think we should head back,” Martin announces. “Traffic, and all that.” 

“Right.” Jon stands, shivers, and begins to unbutton the cardigan to give back to Martin, who lays his hand over Jon’s to stop him. 

“You keep that. Shall we?” 

Jon and Tim follow Martin out the cafe doors and into a warm cab. Jon doesn’t stop shivering. 

Two hours later, Jon is contemplating going home early, because he’s almost certain that he’s ill again. He’s too tired to even read, still shivering even in Martin’s cardigan and in the relative warmth of his office, and his head is pounding. He’s got a lot to do, still, but realistically, he knows that he’s not focusing enough to get any of it done, and he’d like nothing more than to be sleeping in his bed at home. Even his skin seems to be crawling, and he scratches absently at worm-pocked scars that seem more pronounced than usual to his shaking hands. 

Ordinarily, he’d have told himself to tough it out and concentrate. However, remembering how it had felt waking up in Tim’s car, unable to breathe and with his only two friends in the world panicked over him, sends a shiver down his spine, and if this is the beginnings of a flu or something, he refuses to do that to them again. Feeling weak in more ways than one, Jon gathers his bag and forces himself to his feet and out of his office. 

Really, he’s only skipping out an hour early, so the amount of shame he feels as he trudges towards the assistants’ desks seems a little disproportionate. Tim looks up at him, confusion clear on his face, when he stops in front of his desk. 

“Would you mind making sure everything is locked up before you go today?” Jon asks, something he knows Tim knows is a personal ritual of his. They all understand that it’s useless, but if it makes him feel a bit more secure, well, no one is stopping him. 

“Are you going home?” Tim asks, glancing at the clock. Jon nods tiredly. 

“I’m not feeling so well after all,” he admits, “so I’m going to get a bit of rest.” 

“You’re sure you’re the real Jon,” Tim says, somewhere unsettling between a joke and a very realistic suspicion, but Jon seems to assuage the fear with a roll of his eyes. 

“Right. I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

“Wait,” Tim tries to stop him, probably planning on asking him what’s wrong, asking whether he has a fever, if he thinks the pneumonia is back, if he needs a ride home. Martin stops those questions in their tracks when he rounds the corner from whatever errand he’d been running and stops cold when he sees Jon. 

“Oh, dear,” he frets, immediately crossing to stand in front of Jon with a very worried look in his eyes. “I’m so sorry, Jon! I didn’t know you’d never had it. I would have--I just assumed--right, no excuse.”

Jon tries hard to keep his face devoid of emotion as he snaps, “what on Earth are you on about, Martin?” 

As soon as Martin had said it, though, Tim had connected the dots--literally. It’s difficult to see between Jon’s darker complexion, the fact that his face is partially occluded by his hair, and the worm scars, but when it’s out in the open, it’s painfully clear. 

“You haven’t noticed?” Martin asks, his voice soft in a way Tim’s not sure his will ever be again, not toward Jon, and he isn’t envious. When Jon simply continues to look impatient, Martin reaches into his pocket for his phone and turns the camera on selfie mode so Jon can get a look at himself to see the small but certainly distinct red rash lining his face and neck. 

It takes Jon a moment, too, but when it clicks, he curses. 

“Oh, damn it all. What is this? Poison ivy?” 

Martin frowns. “Er, I’m afraid not. The day after I brought Sierra here, her father called me to let me know she had the chicken pox. I… assumed you’d all had it before.” 

“That’s absurd,” Jon condemns. “That’s a childhood illness.” 

“Well, did you have it as a child?” Tim asks. Jon, for all his wisdom and Knowing, looks stumped. 

“I… suppose I don’t know. I’ve always just assumed I had it when I was too young to remember.”

“I’m so sorry, Jon, I—”

“It’s not your fault, Martin,” Jon stops him, clearly too exhausted and ill to listen to him blame himself. “I’m just going to go home and rest. If you need anything—”

“Wait,” Martin interjects, “you shouldn’t--are you sure--chicken pox can be quite serious in adults,” he stammers, “and it’s just been so little time since you took antibiotics; your immune system might not be prepared to fight it off.”

Jon sighs. “If it gets worse, I’ll go to the doctor; I promise.” 

Martin shifts his weight from foot to foot. “Or,” he proposes, “I could come over and check on you after work. Just until the spots are gone! A week, ten days tops!”

“Absolutely not.” 

“We’ll alternate days, then,” Tim suggests. “Martin one, me the next. A quick pop-in, just to make sure you’re still breathing.” 

At that, Jon winces, the memory of when he’d hardly even able to do that much just a few weeks ago. Several times over that time, he’d found himself wondering what might have happened to him if Martin hadn’t found him. He’d been far too ill to think about calling for help, and another few hours might have found him in far worse shape. 

“Until the fever breaks,” Jon meets them halfway. “After that, I’ll handle it myself.” 

Martin nods emphatically--this is likely more agreement than he’d thought he’d get, anyway. “Deal,” he accepts. “But you shouldn’t ride the tube in this shape.” 

“I’ll drive him home. I’ve had the chicken pox, so I’ve got nothing to lose. And yes, before you ask, I’ll come back and lock up after,” he nips Jon’s protest in the bud. 

Jon is too dazed to object, so he just follows as Tim grabs his bag for him and leads him toward his car. 

He takes the opportunity of Jon being at his mercy to stop into a clinic to get him checked out by a doctor, something Jon is NOT happy about, but which makes him feel a bit better about leaving him alone. He’s got a fever, but it’s not absurdly high like it was last time they took him to seek medical attention, and she writes him a prescription that’s meant to reduce the chances of him getting sepsis or encephalitis, warning him of the symptoms of each, so he’ll know when to phone an ambulance if things do go wrong. 

By the time they’ve seen the doctor and picked up the pills from the chemist, Jon is exhausted. Tim walks him into the empty house, where Jon only gets as far as the couch before flopping down face first. 

“Alright, I’m home safely,” he says impatiently. “You may leave.” 

Secretly, Tim is stalling--Martin had texted that he’s picking some things up to make sure Jon can deal with this while they’re not here, and Tim doesn’t particularly want him to be alone when Jon bites his head off for fussing. He makes his way to the kitchen, filling a cup with cold water and bringing Jon the first pill from the bottle. 

“Jon, stop scratching. They’ll scar.” 

Jon shoots him a watery glare, motioning to his pock-marked face. “What should I care if they scar?” 

Tim smirks. “Touché; fine then. If you scratch, they’ll turn into big, open wounds that could get infected.”

“But they _itch_ ,” he whines. He winces at the petulance of it. 

To put the cherry on top, Martin chooses that moment to knock on the door. Jon sits up, taking the pill with a grimace. “Who’s—”

“I’ll give you one guess,” Tim says playfully before opening the door to reveal Martin. Jon groans.

“Thanks, Tim,” he greets. “Look, I know you don’t want us bugging you, but I find it hard to believe you’ve got any of these supplies on hand, so… here we are. I’ve got calamine lotion, sports drinks, antihistamines, and oatmeal.”

Jon frowns. “Oatmeal?” 

“Mixing oats in with some warm bathwater can help the itching,” Martin explains, and Jon scowls.

“Well, I’ll not be doing that.” 

“You can’t keep scratching at them!” 

“Oh, I told him to get something for that, too,” Tim interjects, a mischievous glimmer in his eyes. From the bag, he pulls out a set of cloth oven mitts and a roll of duct tape. “Did this for Danny when he got chickenpox and kept scratching them in his sleep.”

Jon’s glare could freeze water. “You wouldn’t.”

“Are you joking? I would love nothing more.” 

“Tim, stop threatening him. Jon, stop _scratching._ It’s the oatmeal bath or the mitt hands.” 

Though Tim shakes the mitts and tape excitedly, Jon obviously stomps off to the bathroom and starts the water running for the tub. Martin slips the oatmeal through the door and instructs him to use a cup of it, which Jon takes to mean a few generous handfuls, and reluctantly throws them into the water after he’s turned off the faucet. 

For the first few minutes of soaking, the heat of the bath stings sharply. He finds it relieving at first--at least it’s better than itching--but eventually, the heat of the bath begins to make him feel a bit lightheaded, so he carefully gets out of the bath and towels off, changing into shorts and a t-shirt. He doesn’t know whether Martin and Tim are still here, and he can’t quite bring himself to care, either: his skin is absolutely crawling, and it’s blocking out any other thoughts. It takes all his self-control not to touch the angry little red bumps, to keep his hands by his sides, and he’s so distracted by his own misery that he jumps when Martin knocks on his door. 

“Doing alright, Jon?” 

“Fine,” he snaps. “You saw me home; you can leave.” 

Martin is quiet for a moment, but a second set of footsteps, confident and heavy, approach behind him. “Martin made you soup,” he says, “so stop being a baby and come out to eat. After you get some food in your stomach and drink some more water, we’ll leave.” 

Jon closes his eyes. He’s cold again, now that the heat from the bath has worn off, but now with the added excitement of feeling shaky and weak, and still so, so itchy. He presses the palms of his hands into his aching eyeballs with a soft groan, then forces himself to sit up. The longer he stalls here, the more of their evening he occupies, and his guilt is louder than the nausea. 

Jon leans heavily on the door frame when he throws the door open, pushing past them in a motion that they likely think rude, but really is the only way he’ll make it to the table without needing to sit on the floor on the way. 

A bowl of vegetable soup, which Jon is sure Martin must have bought because he certainly didn’t have any in his cabinets, is steaming on the table in front of him, but when he tries to force himself to eat any, his stomach does a flip just at the thought. He sips from the sports drink in front of him, pushing the bowl further away. 

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes meekly, unable to look Martin in the eyes. He’s disappointed; he knows he is, because this is what Jon _does_ ; he disappoints everyone who tries to take care of him by not being able to just accept the damn help and—

“It’s okay,” Martin says, crouching down to his level because he apparently heard the tremble in his voice. When Jon still won’t meet his eyes, he frowns, reaching out and placing his hand on Jon’s forearm. “Hey, it’s alright. I knew you weren’t hungry; I just worry that taking your prescription on an empty stomach will make the nausea worse. I’ll put the soup in the fridge; you can try it later.” Jon nods, feeling tears spring to his eyes--God, Martin is so, so much more patient than he deserves--and Martin’s hand finds its way to his forehead. “Burning up.”

Jon shrugs, swiping a hand over his face. “It was probably the bath.” 

“Hm.” Martin stands. “Look, I know you want space, but I don’t think--I hate to leave you alone like this.” 

“I’m just going to bed,” Jon argues. “I’ll be fine. Really.” 

Martin glances to Tim, who nods, though Jon isn’t sure whether that’s because he trusts him, or because he knows it’ll be more trouble than it’s worth to try to fight him on it. 

“Okay. Then we’ll leave you to get some rest. But if you’re feeling worse—” 

“Yes, the doctor told me everything to look out for,” Jon reassures him. “Severe headaches, severe chills, cough. I’ll call if that happens, I promise.” 

Martin nods. “And, er, even if it doesn’t,” he adds, “if you need something… I mean, this is sort of my fault in the first place, bringing a child to the Institute and whatnot… so I owe you.” 

Jon rolls his eyes, hoping Martin knows that’s not true. “If I need something, I’ll call,” he promises. 

“Good. And one of us will be by tomorrow. So, uh, goodnight, I suppose.” 

Jon waits for the two of them to leave before taking as many Benedryl as the Eye tells him he can safely swallow at a time and heading to bed. 

Under the covers, he’s too warm, and he ends up kicking everything off his bed except a single sheet, in which he entangles his hands to keep from scratching. The rash is worse than it was this afternoon--where it had been mostly on his face and chest when Martin had first pointed it out and had barely itched at all unless he thought about it, now, it’s all down his back and the backs of his legs, down the fleshy undersides of his arms, even his hands and feet. It’s unbearable, and he can think of nothing but the crawling sensation it’s producing all across his body.

He turns on an audiobook to keep his mind from focusing on his misery, but it hardly helps. When his head feels a little less dizzy, he gets up and applies the calamine lotion with the cotton balls, which also hardly helps. He reads for a while, watches Youtube videos on his phone for a while (he overhears Tim and Martin quoting short videos called Vines, sometimes, and while they’ve offered to show them to him, he’s always declined. After four compilation videos, he’s not sure he gets it, but at least he might understand the references), attempts to meditate, even sits at his desk and doodles little pictures to try to occupy his mind, but nothing distracts from the awful itching. In the few minutes of sleep that he does manage, his dreams are filled with bugs, with spiders, with things crawling into and out of his skin, and when he wakes, always sweating and shaking, he’s still fucking itching.

At 7:00 a.m., Jon gives up on sleep. The fever is exhausting, but for the life of him, he just can’t fall asleep. He makes himself a cup of tea and manages a single piece of dry toast before the exertion sends him back to bed, dizzy and feeling more chilled than before, but still ultimately unable to rest. He’s not even sure how he passes the day, really. Martin texts him at lunch, and Jon reassures him he’s fine, even tells him that if he’s busy, he doesn’t need to swing by tonight, but of course, Martin is too insistent for that. 

He scratches at his skin for hours, unable to keep his hands from tearing at his sensitive skin because even the pain feels better than the irritation. 

He’s shocked and relieved to find that he’s managed to pass the entire day like this when there’s a knock at his door. 

Martin is standing in the doorway, and Jon doesn’t quite know what to say. 

“Did you get any sleep at all?” Martin asks in lieu of a greeting, because apparently, it’s obvious. Jon shrugs. “It’’s not--I mean, I don’t--I understand, I mean. It’s just—”

“I get it, Martin,” Jon huffs. “Come in, will you? I’m exhausted.” Martin hurries through the precipice and sits at the table across from Jon, where he immediately regrets letting him inside. 

“You’ve been scratching,” he deduces. “You’re bleeding.” He realizes then that he’s not wearing a shirt: he’d taken it off when he’d started to get small spots of blood on it, and everything felt so wrong and uncomfortable that it didn’t even register before he’d answered the door.

Jon rolls his eyes. “Well. It’s rather… difficult to control.” 

“Well, that’s because you can’t reach half the spots,” Martin reasons. “Turn around; let me. You’ll feel at least a little better afterwards.”

Jon is too tired and fried to fight him on it, so he simply turns around and allows Martin to dab at his back with the calamine-soaked cotton. 

And it does, in fact, feel a little better afterwards. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> incredible artwork done by [@janekfan](https://janekfan.tumblr.com/) !! please go check out all their other wonderful artwork and fics!! <3


	3. The Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon's thoughts are formatted in italics. Please enjoy!

Jon twiddles his pen between his fingers, elbows propped over his knees, staring at the thin lines of the notebook on the coffee table in front of him.

_Journal—it’s a journal,_ he forces himself to admit, trying not to wince at the very thought of writing down his…feelings. Of course, he’d much rather ignore them—who wouldn’t?—but with everything that’s happened lately, after the conversation he’d had with Martin a few weeks ago, he finds himself open to the idea. Shockingly open, in fact. If only he knew how to put any of it into words.

Sighing, he runs a hand through his ever-greying locks and draws his gaze upwards, looking around his flat for any bit of inspiration that might be enough to get him through his own inhibitions. Spider plant in the windowsill to the left, framed by the eternally overcast London sky. Television, which had sat in its box for nearly a year until Tim had set it up for him—a needed pastime throughout his recent illness. The thobe he’d worn to celebrate Eid with Georgie’s family—a tradition they’d kept since his grandmother had died, even after they’d broken up. Stack of dishes in the sink he’s been pointedly ignoring. 

Martin’s knitting project, which he’d left behind accidentally.

_Martin. Perhaps I should start with Martin._

Uncapping the pen with his teeth, he begins to write.

**I’ve come to the conclusion that Martin Blackwood is a good person. Not just good, but kind and patient as well. He’s left his knitting on my table. I’ve yet to text him about it.**

_God, that’s rubbish._

Frustrated at his seeming inability to capture even a single thought, he scrubs a hand down his face, the many scabs covering it twinging uncomfortably as he does so. It’s been nearly two weeks since he’s been on this unfortunate second round of sick leave, and he’s set to go back to work tomorrow, if he can manage it. In his more honest moments, he knows it’s all still a bit up in the air—this general feeling of apparently unshakeable weakness has required him to use his cane near constantly, sometimes even to get around his own flat. 

_It wouldn’t do to worry them about it,_ he thinks with a grimace.

_Especially Martin._

Guilt floods him as he recalls an incident from the beginning of his leave, right as things had gotten bad again. Martin had come over every day, even when it was Tim’s turn to stop by—making sure he’d eaten, dabbing the calamine lotion on the unreachable spots, relentlessly checking for headaches, fever, and infection. If he’d had the energy, Jon is sure he would have said something regrettably nasty about it. It had grated on him—the constant fussing, the repeated questions, the nervous energy with which he buzzed about the room—but he ultimately had no say in the matter, and chose instead to accept the good intentions of Martin’s presence.

They fell into a sort of routine after a few days. Though the visits grew longer and longer each time, Jon found that he didn’t much mind it—he was glad, even, for the company. Something about it drove away a bit of the cold that had settled near-permanently in his bones, though he could not put a finger on why. He thought, perhaps, that it was best not to examine it too closely—rather to just enjoy the rare gift of a caring friend.

The day that Martin had first brought over his knitting and stayed to watch telly, however…that had been a bad day. Jon had been hiding what’s turned into a bit of a chronic cough for weeks, residual from the pneumonia and stretched out by his prior smoking habit. The longer Martin stayed, the more it bubbled up in his chest—until at last he was unable to swallow it. 

In Martin’s defense, it had sounded rather frightening—all the effort of forcing it down had only served to make it worse, and the relative weakness of his lungs did not help matters. Regardless, it had sent Martin into a tailspin of anxiety at once—bursting with the worry that Jon’s battered immune system had allowed his chicken pox to turn into pneumonia.

> _“Oh m—oh my god, Jon, are you alright?” he yelped more than asked, dropping his knitting needles at once and placing a firm hand on Jon’s back._
> 
> _From where he’s bent over, Jon nods quickly, trying to choke back the rest of the fit to no avail. In response, Martin leans forward, placing his other hand on Jon’s knee._
> 
> _“Is it—just—okay, right, just breathe, you’re alright,” Martin stammers, voice picking up in speed and tremulousness as Jon at last comes to the end of his fit._
> 
> _“I’m fine, Martin, it’s fine,” he’s quick to assure, though his voice comes out breathless and much hoarser than he’d like._
> 
> _This does little to calm him—in fact, Martin’s anxiety only seems to grow, words spilling out of him in frightened stutter as he checks Jon’s fever at his forehead, then at his neck._
> 
> _“W-we’ve got to get you back to the hospital, Jon—the-the pneumonia’s back, I-I-I’ve got to call Tim, I—”_
> 
> _“Martin, please—”_
> 
> _“I-I’ve got to get you to the car. Do you feel short of breath? Should I—should I call 999?”_
> 
> _“Wh—no, just—”_
> 
> _“Okay, alright, it’s going to be fine, you’re gonna—be fine—”_
> 
> _Martin trails off rather abruptly, the last sentence of his panicked train of thought interrupted by gasping inhales, which rapidly gain in speed and shallowness. Shocked and alarmed, he clutches a hand over his own chest, eyes wide and wild as he looks up toward the ceiling, as if it could give him answers. Martin is on the edge of a panic attack—clear as day. With a great deal of hesitance, Jon reaches out a hand, hovering over Martin’s own for a few moments before quickly drawing back._
> 
> _“Martin, listen to me. You’re hyperventilating. You need—can you look at me?”_
> 
> _Martin does, trying to slow his breaths by inhaling through his nose and out through his mouth._
> 
> _“Good, alright, you’re alright. We’re—we’re both alright. I-I’m sorry I scared you—it’s not pneumonia again, I promise. Just a bit…well, just a bit left over from—from before. It’s nothing,” he soothes somewhat jerkily, arms hanging in the space between them on the sofa, uncomfortable in this sudden change of role._
> 
> _More than anything, he hates that he’s the reason for Martin’s panic._
> 
> **_I’m not worth that._ **
> 
> _At Jon’s explanation, Martin nods, looking relieved as he hangs his head, still trying to catch his breath. In an effort of monumental courage, Jon reaches out a hand once again—this time letting it fall gently onto Martin’s upper back._
> 
> **_It’s…rather nice,_** _he thinks dimly, kicking himself for it even as he does._
> 
> _“Sorry, Jon, I—I’m sorry,”_
> 
> _“It’s alright.”_
> 
> _“I’m supposed to be taking care of you.”_
> 
> _“You still are.”_
> 
> _Martin takes a deep inhale at this, straightening up once again and glancing up at Jon’s gaze with a rather strained-looking smile._
> 
> _“I have tried to get help, you know. It’s just—it’s hard when you can’t tell your therapist literally anything that’s happened to you,” he says, voice fading into a quick and humorless laugh._
> 
> _“I…I know,” Jon forces out, choking a bit around the weight of this new honesty._
> 
> _Taken aback, Martin looks back up, hazel eyes wide and questioning._
> 
> _“You do? I mean—you’ve gone to therapy?”_
> 
> _Jon sighs heavily and runs a hand through his hair, suddenly feeling more tired than he has in months—which is saying quite a lot._
> 
> _“No. I’ve considered it, though.”_
> 
> _Silence hangs in between them then—a bit unexpected, as Jon had thought Martin would shift into questioning him thoroughly about this as soon as he mentioned it. The more it sits, the heavier it feels, and the harder Jon has to work to swallow the lump in his throat, lodged firmly around the undeserved gift of Martin’s patience._
> 
> _“D-do you want to talk about it? Because you can, you know. Talk. If you want to, I mean,” Martin stammers lowly, fiddling nervously with the sleeves of his jumper._
> 
> _Jon’s every instinct tells him to invent any reason to leave this situation—to say something harsh, to change the subject, to get up and walk away—_
> 
> _He does not contemplate the last one for long, considering the relentless dizziness._
> 
> **_He’s been honest with you._ **
> 
> **_Perhaps you should try to repay the favor._ **
> 
> _“I…” his voice breaks at once, and he clears his throat frustratedly, as Martin leans in with concern._
> 
> _He can’t bear to look at him._
> 
> _“It’s hard, some days. Most days, even. It feels like…like I’m just…barely managing,” he finishes with a whisper, his entire body beginning to shake with awful vulnerability._
> 
> _It’s terrifying, being open like this._
> 
> _“I—I’m really sorry, Jon,” Martin says lowly, resting a hand on Jon’s knee. “Do you…can you explain what you mean?”_
> 
> **_No no no no no_ **
> 
> **_I can’t_ **
> 
> **_…I will._ **
> 
> _Tears begin to prick at his eyes unbidden, and he tells himself it’s from the fever._
> 
> _“I don’t know, I just—” he cuts off, voice breaking as the cursed tears begin to spill over his pock-marked cheeks._
> 
> _“It all just so heavy.”_
> 
> _He swipes at his face aggressively, overcome with shame at this outburst. He shouldn’t have burdened Martin with this, especially now, he doesn’t need another thing to make his life harder—_
> 
> _“Oh, Jon,” he sighs, resting a gentle hand on Jon’s shoulder. “Can I—can I hug you?”_
> 
> _Something new and visceral and lovely pools in Jon’s stomach at these words, even as his tears spring forth anew. In spite of himself, in spite of everything, he nods his assent—Martin leans in at once, and he finds himself immediately encased in such warmth that he has not felt in months. That perhaps he has never felt._

Shaking himself from this remembrance, Jon uncaps his pen again, and writes.

**I’ve started this journal because of Martin. Perhaps if I write some things down, I’ll be better able to say them out loud. He’s started one too. We don’t talk about it.**

**But it feels good. He makes me feel—**

_Better? Safe?_

_…something._

Jon growls in agony and leans back against the cushions of his sofa, burying his face in his hands.

_Best not to finish that thought._

\---

The next week finds Jon back at work, his stamina slowly increasing such that he can work a full day again—breakroom naps not included. Jon has started to think that perhaps this run of bad luck is some kind of lesson from the universe to teach him humility, or at least how to ask for help before things get really desperate. He’s also grown much more aware of his own body—not just because of the myriad of scars marking it, but more aware of how it _feels._ What his leg feels like on days where it’s better to use his cane, and days where he could go without. What his thoughts center around when he’s having a bad day. 

Today, though—today has been good. Truly good.

Instead of going out to the café together, Tim has been taking their orders and bringing it back to the Institute—a gesture Jon knows is in response to his continual bundling up in Martin’s cardigan, increased cane usage, and general weakness that he rarely bothers to hide anymore. It’s hardly worth the effort—he knows that Tim and Martin are keeping a close eye on him, and would be unlikely to miss any of the signs that he’s having a bad day. As frustrated as he often feels about it, the energy to be angry is simply not there, and so Jon spends his efforts on accepting help he knows he needs.

He tries, at least. It’s a process.

“Alright, boss, lunch time!” Tim booms as he walks past Jon’s office door, carrying a takeaway bag in his left arm.

Jon rolls his eyes, naturally—but pulls his cane from where he’s leaned it against the wall and follows Tim into the breakroom all the same. 

_Someday I’ll cook for them. When I have the energy._

The thought startles him—he’s never really wanted to cook for someone else before, and rarely for himself. But his grandmother had taught him well, and now…now he’s got someone to share it with. Jon doubts Tim and Martin have eaten much Jordanian food, so hopefully they will not have anything against which they could compare him.

“Oh—hi, Jon! Are you joining us today?” Martin says delightedly as they enter the breakroom, seeming to be halfway through the tea-making process.

“We’ll see how long he lasts before it’s sleepy time again,” Tim laughs, flashing Jon a teasing smile and a wink.

“That’s hardly fair,” Jon argues, lifting his chin in defiance even as Tim pulls a chair out from the table, patting it for him to sit down.

He still hovers, and at this point, Jon is not sure there’s anything he could do to make him stop worrying.

“Oh, I’m _so sorry_ for bruising your ‘stiff upper lip’ ideals,” he grins, though it’s obvious he’s watching for any sign of pain as Jon sits before taking a seat himself.

“Come off it, Tim—let’s just enjoy our break, alright?” Martin chastises, placing cups of tea in front of each of them and beginning to sort through the takeaway boxes.

“Oh I _am_ enjoying, thank you so much for asking, Marto.”

“That wasn’t a question, you arse.”

“It…it did have a question mark at the end, though,” Jon says softly, surprising both Tim and Martin out of their bickering. “So it was technically a question.”

Martin’s mouth drops open as he gapes at him, and Tim claps his hands together with glee.

“Ha! Sorry Martin, the boss man has spoken.”

“Fine, fine, just settle down and eat your lunch,” Martin replies exasperatedly, though Jon can hear the way his mouth takes the shape of a smile in his tone.

His stomach jolts, though not at all unpleasantly.

_Ignore ignore ignore ignore_

They spend the rest of lunch comfortably, with Jon content to listen to Tim and Martin’s idle chatter for most of it. In fact, he ends up spending most of his energy on eating. Though it’s typically hard for him to finish any meal, even just a café sandwich, Jon finds that he’s quite hungry today—eating nearly all of his food with no coaxing from either of his friends. They’d never mention it, but Jon can tell how pleased this makes them by the way they glance sidelong at each other when they think he’s not looking. Seeing them this way encourages Jon through to the very last bite, and he even accepts the bit of chocolate Martin offers him for dessert.

He’s never seen Martin blush quite like that, which is saying something—and decides to cherish it.

\---

A few hours later, Jon is back in his office pouring over old statements, the food and caffeine from the chocolate pushing his mind into a single-mindedness he has felt so rarely in these past few months. He finds himself almost exhilarated by it—so relieved is he by the prospect of being able to focus again, being able to _work_ again that he’s nearly let the entirety of the afternoon slip past him without moving from his spot. When he finally does sit up from where he’s been hunched over his desk, a familiar ache runs through his body—

As well as a dizziness he has not felt in nearly two weeks.

_Shit._

Blinking back against the whirling colors, he tries to keep his head as still as possible, breathing deeply to offer his brain more oxygen. It helps a bit—the dizziness fades into distraction after a few moments, but the colors remain swirling in the corners of his vision. Rubbing at his eyes, he tries to dislodge anything that might be stuck there. Upon opening them again, the swirling spot has only grown, spreading outwards from the edges in colorful static.

_It’s nothing._

_It’s fine._

_You’ve just been staring down for too long._

If he were honest, he knows this is a lie—he could almost feel it in the air today, like cattle that migrate upon sensing the rain. Nevertheless, his own stubbornness gets in the way, and he merely picks up the statements, holding them out to read to avoid bending down. Before long, he discovers that it’s a wash—there’s no way he can focus on the small words in this state, not while something dreadful is thrumming up behind his eyes and pounding against his skull.

_Am I…am I ill again?_

Anxiously, he presses a hand up against his own forehead to check for fever, before frustratedly realizing just how useless it is.

_Just ignore it._

_It might still go away._

He allows his eyes to drift closed, focusing his energy on keeping as still as possible. Inhale—exhale—every breath measured, calming, and focused. It still doesn’t help. The light filtering in behind his eyelids still swirls in his mind, driving up the pulsing rhythm digging outwards from his skull.

_Breathe._

_Just breathe._

_You’re fine._

“Hey, Jon, I think I might have found—woah, woah, what’s going on?”

Tim hurriedly shuts the door behind him, kneeling quickly in front of Jon. At his voice, Jon snaps his eyes open, unwilling to activate Tim’s protective instincts yet again—and hisses as soon as he does so, squeezing them shut against the exruciating burst of light.

“Nngh—”

Jon can’t help but pitch forward, overcome with a sudden wave of nausea. The hammering behind his eye is nearing unbearable, and he presses his palm into it instinctively, certain that his skull is about to explode.

“Woah! Alright, alright—” Tim says worriedly, reaching out to brace Jon’s arms, preventing him from tipping over and onto the floor. “Jon, can you hear me?”

“G’h—yeah,” he manages to force out between panting breaths, reflexively resting his forehead against Tim’s shoulder.

“What’s wrong? Are you going to be sick?” Tim asks rapidly, pitch driven upwards by concern.

_Too many questions_

“M-my _head,_ ” he gasps, voice muffled by Tim’s jumper, hoping it’ll be enough to get the message of _spinning, sickening, pounding, swirling, aching_ across.

“You’ve got a headache?”

Ever so slightly, Jon shakes his head no.

“Migraine?”

_Migraine._

_Must be._

“Y— _agh_ —yes,” he whispers, ashamed.

_You shouldn’t have to do this again._

_You shouldn’t do this at all._

“Alright—alright, we can manage that,” Tim murmurs decisively, reaching up to flick off the lights in Jon’s office, immediately drawing some small measure of relief.

“Can you just sit here for a second? I’ll get Martin, and we’ll set up the cot so you can lie down.”

“Don’t,” Jon whispers, grabbing onto Tim’s shirt as he attempts to rise.

“Don’t what?” Tim asks confusedly, crouching slowly back down.

“Don’t tell Martin,” he whispers, eyes still closed. “Please.”

_I can’t worry him again._

Tim seems to consider this for a moment before responding.

“Alright. Just stay put, I’ll be back,” he says, slipping out the door.

As soon as he shuts it, Jon pitches forward again, the heels of his palms pressing urgently against his eyes. He can hardly bear it, it’s all so loud, so bright, all he wants is the dark—

Then Tim returns, and he knows he’s saved.

“Okay, I’m just going to set this up right quick,” he whispers, silently unfolding the cot and spreading out the pillows and blanket over top.

“Unfortunately, Martin asked what on earth I was doing with the cot, and—and I won’t lie to him. And I’m not sorry. He’s bringing you some water.”

_Damn it all._

Still, Jon cannot find it in himself to be properly upset—that would require scowling, and he’s quite sure that he’s not capable of that. The setup completed, Tim turns back to Jon, murmuring encouragingly as he half-lifts him to standing. Even this gentle motion is too much, and Tim ends up supporting all his weight as they shuffle toward the cot, the guilt pounding through Jon’s heart as painfully as the migraine.

“M’sorry,” he mutters as Tim leans him back against the pillows, eyes pricking up with tears.

“Not your fault, Jon. You’ve been really ill, it shouldn’t be a surprise,” Tim assures, brushing a few wayward strands of greying hair back from Jon’s thin face.

The door creaks slowly open and shut, and Jon recognizes Martin’s soft footsteps approaching.

“I’ve got you some water, Jon,” he whispers, setting it down by the side of the cot. “And a cold towel. Do you want to try it over your eyes?”

Sorrow rings heavy, even in Martin’s gentle voice, and Jon would do anything to take it away.

_Your fault your fault your fault_

The whirling colors of the aura grow tall and monstrous behind his eyes, twisting into Martin’s form, into Tim’s, revealing their disappointment and hurt and anger and bitterness and _hatred—_

“Oh—oh _no,_ Jon, it’s alright,” Martin soothes anxiously, brushing his thumb against the rivulets now flowing down his cheeks in anguished sobs.

His head _pounds pounds pounds_ with each movement of his heaving chest, fuzzing out Martin’s words, until—

A firm hand grips his forearm.

“You need to stay calm, Jon. You’re going to make it worse.”

Tim’s face bursts through the aura in thousands of colors, and the only word Jon ever wants to say to him spills unhindered from his lips.

“M’sorry, m’sorry, m’so sorry, Tim,” he gasps between sobs, the lack of control he feels completely overwhelming his senses.

“Hush, Jon. Hush. That’s enough. Martin, the rag—”

A damp coolness is draped over his eyes at once, cool enough to quench the hot, stinging tears.

“Just take a deep breath if you can, Jon. In through the nose, out through the mouth, alright?” Martin encourages gently, his voice like warm blanket.

He can’t help but try.

It’s the least he can do.

“There you are, love. It’s alright. Just try to focus on getting well, okay?”

_Love._

Martin has _never_ used that word for him before.

Others, certainly, but never for him.

They stay just like this for a few minutes, Jon’s mind reeling in the wake of his panic as well as this new, confusing bit of vocabulary. Eventually, his breathing reaches an even keel, and he begins to grow a bit uncomfortable with the way he’s being watched.

_Bit of irony to it all._

“Do you want to be left alone for a bit, Jon?” Tim asks lowly, as if reading Jon’s very thoughts. “We can step outside and check back later, if you want some space.”

“Yes,” he whispers, relieved. “Thank you.”

“Alright.”

Jon hears them both stand, Martin’s knees popping enthusiastically after he’s apparently been kneeling on the floor. 

“If you need anything—”

“Come on, Martin—”

“I-I mean, you could shout, but it would probably—”

“He’ll be fine, let’s go,” Tim whispers, effectively shoving Martin out the door and closing it behind them.

Jon gives a long sigh, smile creeping up just a bit, even through the pain.


	4. Chapter 4: The Desolation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Desolation is one of The Entities. It is a manifestation of pain, loss and unthinking or cruel destruction: "all of the worst parts of fire, with none of the warmth."

Jon suffers three more migraine attacks over the course of the next two weeks. The first one lasted hours, and even after the pain begins to dissipate, he’d been groggy and fuzzy, enough so that Martin had asked to take him to his own flat afterward, and he hadn’t had it in him to object. 

The second had been six days later and had woken him up from sleep, and while the pain hadn’t been as bad as the first one, the nausea had been extreme enough that he’d called in sick from work for the first time in anyone’s memory. Tim stopped by after work, happy to find that the pain had dulled, and he’d been able to sit up in the living room (with the lights dimmed) hold down a few crackers. 

The third had been the longest--only three days after the second, it had come on so slowly that he’d thought it was just tension until he couldn’t feel half his face and could hardly speak. Tim and Martin had almost taken him to A&E would have done if the pain hadn’t started up again, familiar enough by now that he had recognized it immediately. That time, it had been two days before he was able to get up off the cot and face the light from the hallway. Martin keeps saying he should see a neurologist, that it’s not healthy to have such severe headaches crop up out of nowhere like this, but Jon keeps reminding him that it’s not out of nowhere: that they’ve been under so much stress lately, it’s honestly amazing that the rest of them have been relatively okay, save for Martin’s panic attacks and Tim’s nightmares. 

It starts to feel normal, the feeling abnormal. Having feared for his life during the pneumonia and the first migraine before he’d known what was happening, really, learning that no permanent damage was being done made the whole ordeal feel less dramatic. Every time he’s told “it’s not the worst case scenario,” Jon hears, “it’s nothing; get over it.” 

Between the migraine attacks, Jon feels good. Better than he has in weeks, in fact. The cough is gone, the chicken pox have receded with minimal scarring, and he’s finally beginning to get through entire days of work without napping halfway through. He may not be ready to run a marathon just yet (or ever), but the extent to which he’s recovered allows him to function, and that’s good enough for him. Life is, for a while, between the headaches, largely predictable, stable, static.

When Tim tells him he’s moving out of his flat and into something smaller, Jon is surprised. He knows that big changes can affect an already vulnerable state of mind, and it concerns him, but Tim brushes off each objection. 

“I talked it over at length with my therapist,” he reassures. “She thinks it’s a good idea, that it might help me to move on if I, you know, literally move on.”

“And you agree with her?” Jon asks. “Not that I don’t, of course,” he adds sheepishly. “I just want to make sure you’ve thought about it enough.” 

Tim rolls his eyes, but there’s a smile to accompany it. “Believe me, Boss, I’ve done nothing but think about it since I first had the idea. But it’s time. I need to pack up Danny’s room and put it somewhere I can live around it again. I’ve already got a place, too! It’s nice. He’d have liked it.”

Because Tim is a touch-driven person, Jon reaches out and rubs his arm gently, if awkwardly. “Well, I’m proud of you,” he says. “I’m happy to help you move, if you’d like.” 

“Funny you should say that,” Tim replies. “Actually, I wouldn’t mind some help. Nothing very physical--you’ve been ill, and Martin is helping me with the boxes. But, and this is only if you’re feeling up to it, I wouldn’t mind having an extra pair of hands for unpacking.” 

Jon lights up at that. With all Tim has done for him in the past few months, not to mention all the worry he’s caused, he’s excited to have something he can actually do to repay him and perhaps even show him he’s not so delicate. 

“Happy to,” Jon rushes to agree. “Just name a time, and I’ll need the address. Anything you need.” 

“I’ll text you. I’m moving on Saturday, early, but you can drop by whenever you have the time. Pizza and beer are on me.” 

Jon smiles. “I’ll be there.” 

On Saturday, Jon rolls out of bed early and takes a shower before drying his hair and grabbing a quick bite to eat--he’s not really a breakfast person, but he knows for a fact that Martin is going to ask, so he takes the time to eat two pieces of toast with jam, even puts some tea in a travel mug before heading out the door. 

It’s a nice day, one of those that might have been chilly if it weren’t so sunny, but because it’s a rare cloudless morning, the temperature is comfortable enough that even Jon doesn’t need a jacket (though he brings one along, anyway, just to be safe). It’s a short but pleasant walk to the bus stop, and then about a fifteen-minute ride to Tim’s old neighborhood. 

“Need a ride?” a voice from an SUV behind him startles Jon into visibly jumping. “Sorry!”

“Good lord, Martin,” Jon chastises, one hand thrown over his heart dramatically. 

“I’m sorry,” Martin apologizes again, but Jon is already opening the passenger door and stepping inside. The bus stop is only a few minutes from Tim’s duplex, but why not spend that time with Martin?

“Thank you for the lift,” he mutters. Martin’s car smells like fresh linen from the small, pale blue air freshener clipped into his vent. Jon has never been in his car before, since Martin so rarely takes it anywhere. In fact, Jon hadn’t even known that he’d had a car, but considering the wheelchair lifting machinery in the middle of it, he supposes he should have known that he’d have something like this for taking care of his mother. 

“Is that the darjeeling tea I got you?” Martin asks, gesturing to Jon’s travel mug and interrupting his thoughts. 

“Hm?” he refocuses. “Oh, yes. It is. I like it more than I thought I might.” 

“I’m so glad,” Martin brightens. “I’ve got a few different kinds that are low in tannins, but I thought that would be the most similar to the English Breakfast you like so much.” 

Jon shakes his mug. The car is just barely quiet enough that he can hear the liquid sloshing around inside. “The only thing I dislike is that it’s so bitter when I make it,” he complains. 

“You’re probably over-steeping,” Martin advises. “That, or your water might be too hot. That can affect the taste, you know.” 

Jon rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “I didn’t realize there was so much science to it.” 

“Science,” Martin questions as he parks the car in front of Tim’s duplex and cuts the engine off, “or art?”

Jon actually laughs. “Let’s not get carried away,” Jon scolds lightly. Before Maritn can reply, Tim appears in front of the car door, smiling widely. 

“You two drove together?” Tim asks when Martin opens the door, adding to the implication with scandal-seeking eyes and a grin. Jon would roll his eyes at the insinuation, but watching Martin turn pink is much more fun. 

“N-no, of course not,” Martin denies. “I saw him walking and thought--I just offered--not that it would even be so weird; Jon and I don’t live far—”

“I was kidding,” Tim chuckles. “Don’t short-circuit, please. Lovely to see you both, as always.”

“Right,” Jon agrees. “Shall we get started?” 

Tim leads them into his flat, which is neatly boxed up and clean from top to bottom. Honestly, he’d expected him to still be half-packed and not even having started on the cleaning, and Jon is surprised. He supposes that it’s largely driven by the fact that this has been an emotional process for Tim, and one that he probably didn’t want Jon and Martin to observe. Still, Jon whistles. 

“You’re really very organized,” he points out as Tim begins loading boxes onto Martin’s open arms. 

“That’s more of a compliment than you’ve ever given me at work,” Tim points out. 

Jon picks up two small, light boxes just so Tim can’t see the humor in his face as he teases, “well, this is more organized than you’ve ever _been_ at work.” 

“I resent that,” Tim objects, “and stop carrying things. You’re going to overexert yourself.” 

Jon rolls his eyes. “I’ll limit myself to ten kilos.” 

Tim glares, removing the topmost box. “Make it five,” he amends, “and if I hear you sounding out of breath, you’re benched.”

“Yes, Coach.” 

Tim laughs as he heaves several heavy-sounding boxes into his arms and follows Martin and Jon to the moving truck he’s rented outside. The morning and afternoon pass this way, with the loading boxes into the truck. Every few trips, Jon takes a rest, if only for Martin and Tim’s peace of mind. They pack, they chat, they drink water, and they rinse and repeat. 

It’s around 1:00 that they load the last box into the truck. They’re all tired, hot, and most of all, hungry. 

“Let’s have a break for lunch,” Tim announces. “Then we’ll drive to the new place and start unloading the truck. Sound good?” 

Martin nods. “Perfect. I’m starving.” 

“Great. What does everyone want on their pizza? I’m going to go out on a limb and say Jon takes pineapple.”

Jon wrinkles his nose. “Why would you suppose that?”

“I don’t know; all your opinions are weird,” Tim shrugs. “Anyway, I like veggies. Martin?” 

“Anything’s fine,” he says, then pauses. “But no olives.” 

“Duly noted. Jon?” 

“I’m with Martin. Anything but olives.” 

Tim throws his hands up in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. Wasn’t aware I was in such hostile company. I’ll have them leave the olives off. Mushrooms, onions, and peppers okay?” 

The two nod, though Jon knows he’ll pick off the peppers, anyway. He doesn’t like to fuss about it, even if the peppers still leave a weird taste over anything they’ve touched. 

When the pizza is ordered, Tim and Martin load all of Tim’s furniture into the back of the truck. The timing is perfect, as they’re just closing the back hatch when the delivery woman arrives and gives Tim their boxes, which he carries inside after paying. On the floor of his apartment, they eat pizza and breadsticks off paper plates, chatting lightly about anything but work, anything but statements, anything but where the fuck Elias might be and what the fuck he might be up to. Really, for the past few months, Jon has been wondering if there’s even anything more to him than work and statements and wondering where the fuck Elias might be and what the fuck he might be up to, but hearing himself weigh in on movie trailers he’s seen and new restaurants he’s passed on the bus but never gone inside, he feels like perhaps there’s something else in him after all. 

Tim tosses the empty pizza box in the trash outside when they’re finished, and Jon and Martin don’t rush him from or comment upon the moment he takes standing in front of the house, looking at it from the front door of the truck parked just outside. 

“Alright,” he says when he’s apparently looked long enough. 

“Ready?” Martin asks. It feels like a loaded question, but Tim nods regardless. 

“Yeah,” he replies. “Yeah. Let’s get going.” 

Tim’s new place is, indeed, smaller. He’d always called Danny’s old room a guest room, even though the one time Martin had ever stayed over with Tim, when the cot had been bothering his back and he still didn’t feel safe at home, he’d slept on the couch. 

This fits better. Tim fits better inside it. 

“Wow,” Martin marvels at the empty tour, “this place is beautiful. I’m really happy for you, Tim.” 

Tim chuckles. “Well, I couldn’t have done it without you two helping. Especially you, Martin--and I don’t just mean today.” 

Jon smiles as Martin blushes. He deserves to be praised like that, in the ways that Jon always struggles to articulate and the ways that too many people in his life have either not noticed or taken advantage of. The soft, selfless ways that Martin doesn’t even realize he’s giving himself away. 

“Jon?” Martin calls, and he blinks to attention. “Sorry, you seemed like you were spacing out a bit.” 

“Oh, yeah, I just--er, not important. Let’s start moving in, shall we?” 

“There’s the Jon I know,” Tim jokes. “Down to business, then. If you want, Martin and I can start bringing in the boxes, and you can start unpacking and putting them away.” 

“Where would you like to start?” 

Tim thinks for a moment, then shrugs. “The kitchen? Might be easiest, since that’s the last room we packed up.” 

Jon sets himself up on the floor of the kitchen and waits for the boxes to come. He shrugs his sweater off, leaving only the worn black tank top underneath, and folds it to cushion his knees. The kitchen is nice, just like the rest of the flat: minimal countertop space, but a decent gas stove and an oven, not to mention the enormous window, almost reminiscent of a greenhouse. He can feel the sun, gentle and warm, on his back, making his skin tingle pleasantly. 

Tim and Martin make several trips just for the kitchen, and Jon is busy unpacking his pots and pans when, on the third trip, Martin stops after setting his boxes down, staring at Jon. Silently. Unnervingly. 

“Is there… something wrong, Martin?” 

“No, no!” he rushes to reassure. “I was just--you’ve got a bit of a sunburn, it looks like. I was just wondering when you might have--but that’s none of my business, now is it?” 

Jon looks down at his shoulders in confusion and finds that Martin is right: his shoulders and chest are red, and if it’s noticeable on his dark complexion, then it’s certainly not “a bit of a sunburn.” He doesn’t tell Martin this. 

“I’ve got no idea when I got this,” he admits. “I never burn. That’s so strange…”

Martin closes the curtains of the large window to block out all but a faint glow and a small sliver of sunlight. 

“This might help,” he offers, and Jon nods, but he’s skeptical, as there’s no way he’s gotten this burnt in just the fifteen minutes he’s been sitting in here. It typically takes hours of intense sun exposure for a burn to show up; in fact he’s only had a handful of proper burns in his life, and certainly none of them have been from something like sitting in front of an open window. He doesn’t stop Martin as he leaves the kitchen and he doesn’t stop unpacking boxes. 

With no small amount of discomfort, he pulls his sweater back over his head in the hopes of keeping the burn from worsening, but the woolen cables of the jumper now feel itchy and painful against his tender skin. 

Keep unpacking, he tells himself. Tim just packed up Danny’s room; today cannot be about you; not again. 

Every movement is harder than the last, the fabric of his sweater feeling almost as if it’s tearing at open wounds. He wants to remove it again, but with the amount of heat that is radiating up from it now, he has no doubt the burn is getting worse. How is it getting worse? He’s not done anything, isn’t even exposed to the sun anymore. 

The pain is making it difficult to focus, or perhaps that’s the spinning sensation? God, and his head is pounding. When did that start? 

Jon doesn’t realize he’s given up on unpacking altogether until Martin’s arm on his shoulder elicits a startled, pained hiss and he jerks away, then clamps a hand over his mouth, suddenly afraid he’ll be ill. 

“Oh, Jesus,” Tim’s voice says from the doorway, louder than whatever Martin is murmuring to him. He really hadn’t wanted for Tim to see this. Once again, he’s ruined something that was meant to be a good thing for someone else, stopped Tim from moving forward in his life. 

And he just KNOWS he’s paying hourly for the moving truck.

“--on? Jon, can you hear me? What’s going on? You’re burning up, really badly.” 

“Martin, please,” is all he can manage to whine, shrugging out from under the concerned hand on his back. It hurts too much.

“Alright, I won’t touch you,” Martin promises, “but you have to talk to me. What’s happened?” 

Tim settles in front of them, frowning. “He’s bright red,” he notes. 

“From the fever?” 

Jon shakes his head, tugging uselessly at his sweater until Martin gently helps him pull it over his head. The curses that Tim utters make Jon wince. 

“He looks like he’s been fucking deep-fried,” Tim laments. “How did this happen?”

“I--it wasn’t nearly as bad fifteen minutes ago,” Martin offers. “It looks like a sunburn.” 

“Feels like one,” Jon chimes in, finally gaining at least some clarity back now that the sweater is no longer causing him pain. 

“This is not a sunburn,” Tim argues. “You’re covered in blisters.” 

Martin frowns. “Maybe it’s an allergy.” 

“No,” Jon decides, certain for reasons he doesn’t quite understand. “Right the first time. I know.” 

“What, that it’s a sunburn?” Tim asks incredulously. “You can’t be serious, both of you. Am I being punked? What kind of sunburn happens inside a building?”

“What makes you so sure?” Martin asks Jon, who pauses. 

“It… feels like one. But with a… with a creepy edge.” 

“Oh, great,” Tim rants. “So you say it’s some terrifying Eldritch horror sunburn? Makes perfect sense. Totally no possible that you’re delusional because you’re burning up and working when you should be resting.” 

Martin’s hand shakes when he points out the evidence, which appears as a blister, not exceptional in size but bad enough, forming before their very eyes. The process takes nearly a minute, but with wide-eyed horror, Tim and Martin silently watch as a fluid-filled blister appears on his shoulder with supernatural speed. 

“Oh, my God,” Tim breathes. “You’ve got a supernatural sunburn.” 

Jon shivers against a fever chill. 

“We stopped the Unknowing,” Martin suggests, “but we didn’t stop the entities. We can’t. What if this is just…”

“Fear itself taking a cheap shot?” Tim provides, sighing when Martin nods. “I hate that that doesn’t sound ridiculous. What am I doing in my life that I think that’s a plausible theory?” 

“There’s plenty of time for an existential crisis later,” Martin chastises. “For now—”

“Right, Jon,” Tim refocuses. “I’m with you. What do we do?” 

Jon loses the thread of the conversation for a bit while he tries to make himself concentrate on their faces. For whatever reason, he can’t seem to make his ears and his eyes work at the same time. Martin looks scared. Tim looks angry, but angry in that way that means he’s scared. 

“Jon,” Martin calls, and watching his lips move, Jon understands why he loves poetry, “please, don’t pass out. You look like you’re going to, and you need to not.”

And then everything goes black. 

He wakes up covered in cold compresses. It takes him nearly a minute to recognize Tim’s new flat, and a minute more to realize that Martin and Tim must have at some point, either while he was unconscious or while he was working in the kitchen, dragged it inside from the truck.

“Tim,” Martin calls as soon as his eyes flutter open, “he’s awake.” 

Tim rounds the corner from the kitchen to the living room with a bowl of fresh ice water, a bottle fo sports drink, and an additional several dry washcloths. 

He’s very aware that they’re staring at him, but the more pressing discomfort is the way the couch presses against the burn. How had he even gotten burnt on his back? It hadn’t even faced the window. 

“Just got off the phone with my cousin, the nurse,” he announces, clarifying for Jon, since Martin seems to know that already. “She said that as long as his temperature isn’t above 40°C, that we can treat him here. Probably not strictly legal without speaking with him, but she wrote him a script for a steroid cream to prevent infection. I’m going to pick it up in a minute, if you can handle him yourself.” He sits next to Martin on the floor beside the couch. 

“How do you feel?” Martin asks, concern and sympathy in equal measures clear on his face. 

“Overcooked,” he says simply, pushing the washcloth from his forehead to sit up a bit, though not all the way. “What happened?” 

“We’re going to figure that out,” Martin promises, “but for now, you’ve got the nastiest sunburn I’ve ever seen. It stopped spreading, thank God. We thought we were going to have to phone an ambulance, when you fainted like that.” 

Jon rolls the word “fainted” around in his mouth until Tim nods. 

“One moment, you were unpacking boxes, healthy as can be, and the next, you’re sunburnt to hell, burning up with fever, and not responsive. Scared the shit out of us.” 

Jon’s face falls. “I’m so sorry, Tim,” he apologizes. 

“What? For what? You didn’t do anything wrong.” 

He shakes his head, because he has to plead his case, has to let them know that he’s not trying to ruin everything good that comes into their lives, but the thoughts get stopped up in his cheeks before he can articulate any of them. 

“We’ve got a bit of a theory as to what’s happening to you,” Martin tries to ease the tension, “but we’ll save it for when you’re well. Right now, you need rest.”

Jon, for all his social density, knows when he’s being asked to leave. 

At least, he thinks he does, until Tim’s hand on his shoulder (too hot too hot so painful oh god) stops him from sitting up. 

“Woah, Boss, just where do you think you’re going?” 

“Home?” Jon asks. A second ago it would not have been a question. Tim laughs at the insinuation that it was even a thought. 

“Absolutely not. You’re not squirming out of our sight until we figure this thing out.” 

Jon averts his eyes. “This was supposed to be a positive day for you,” he says. “Not--all this.” 

Tim rolls his eyes. “Jon, I donated the last box of Danny’s clothes today because I don’t have the closet space for them here. It was going to be a shit day, anyway. No matter what you did.” 

“Then, I’m sorry for adding to the stress. It’s the last thing you need.” 

“I could say the same for you!” Tim accuses. 

“Nobody ‘needs’ to be ill, Jon,” Martin tries to soften the moment. “It just happens sometimes. Just… rest, please. Away from the windows.” 

Jon nods. “You’re sure?” he questions Tim, who smiles. 

“Absolutely. When you’re better, we’ll work on figuring out what’s really going on. In the meantime, I blame Elias.”

“He’s not even here,” Jon reminds him. Tim chuckles. 

“Exactly. So he has no alibi.” 

Jon doesn’t feel satisfied with the conversation. There are still more questions than answers, and he’s got a sinking feeling that even of just the questions, he’s barely scratched the surface. 

But Martin, as usual, is right. For now, all he can do is sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> incredible artwork done by [@janekfan](https://janekfan.tumblr.com/)!! please go check out all their other wonderful artwork and fics!! <3


	5. The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End: death and the fear of death, as well as the cruel and unstoppable end of things.
> 
> CW: panic attack (a bit graphic)
> 
> please be careful and enjoy! <3
> 
> (Jon's thoughts are formatted in italics)

“Here, Jon, you can sit back down—you’ll probably just want a sheet then, if anything.”

Patting the mattress that has been pulled out from the couch, Martin reaches a bit clumsily back into the pile of blankets near his feet, pulling out a thin sheet and fluffing it in the air. Both of them had ended up staying at Tim’s new flat that night—Jon due to his sun poisoning, and Martin, well—

Jon’s quite certain that Martin had purposely drank a bit too much, so they would have an excuse not to leave Tim alone tonight. Not that he blamed him—Tim had a rather rough go of it in the end, as they ought to have expected. Moving away from your home of many years, your family all lost along with it, is something with which Jon is intimately familiar. Though he’d admittedly been much younger when he’d lost his parents, and he hadn’t lived alone afterwards.

 _I hope he’s alright,_ Jon thinks, sitting back down on the edge of the bed and glancing anxiously toward the closed door of the bathroom.

Tracking Jon’s gaze, Martin stops his sheet fluffing and sits down.

“He’ll be alright. It’s just—it’s just hard, that’s all.”

“I know,” Jon mutters, still not taking his eyes from the door. “I’m just worried.”

Martin sighs at this, hand reaching out toward Jon’s shoulder—before he thinks better of touching the still-blistering skin.

“I—yeah. So am I. But…at least this way, we’ll be here. We’ll get him through the first night if he needs it.”

Something about the clear determination in Martin’s tone, even if slowed by the alcohol, tugs the corners of Jon’s mouth upwards. 

“Right…right, of course,” he says, Martin turning toward him as he hears a smile in his voice. “We’ll get him through.”

\---

(earlier)

A few hours of sleep, a lot of steroid cream, and many temperature checks after his fainting spell, Jon has finally been permitted to sit up on the couch and sip at his water. It’s been kept in a near-bottomless supply by Martin, who has been flitting between looking after him and helping Tim finish unpacking rather restlessly. With no small measure of guilt, Jon is forced to acknowledge that this is his coping mechanism—busying himself in an attempt to keep from panicking over Jon’s health again, forcing himself to give Jon some space. Jon can hear him humming indistinctly from where he’s unpacking in the bathroom, never drifting too far from ear shot, just in case.

 _I’m not worth that,_ his mind is quick to tell him, and he tries immediately to bury the thought beneath the earth. Regardless, it still hurts in a way that has nothing to do with his scorching skin.

He is broken rather abruptly from his thoughts by a buzzing—light and tickling—where his skull meets his spine. With a start, he realizes that this is the Eye, calling out to him from god knows where, for god knows what reason other than to tell him…to tell him…

Something is wrong.

Jon Knows it as certain as his own name.

Getting unsteadily to his feet, Jon blinks away the darkness closing in around the edges of his vision, bracing against the wall with one hand as he makes his way quietly toward Tim’s bedroom. Come to think of it, it has been a while since Tim has emerged, the realization quickening Jon’s pulse as he rounds the corner—only to face Tim, sitting with his back against the foot of his bed, staring unseeingly at the wall in front of him.

Silent tears are running down his face.

_Oh god oh god_

Jon has never really been good at this, not in the way he and Martin are. Where comforting seems to come naturally to them, it feels the most alien thing in the world to him—as he’d spent the better part of the past few years actively avoiding situations like this. But something in him tells him that he’s got to do something—surely it’s better to try and get it wrong than to walk away.

He steels himself, still bracing against the door frame.

“Tim?”

Blinking a few times, Tim moves slowly to look at him, eyes so far away that Jon is unsure how much he’s really seeing.

“Go sit back down,” he mutters, in such a flattened tone that Jon shudders, reminded of how…deadened he’d sounded before they’d stopped the Unknowing.

Everything in him begs to turn and walk away.

Everything in him knows he needs to stay.

Decision made, Jon approaches slowly—the floorboards creaking a bit under him as he sits cross-legged on the floor. Watching Tim breathing through whatever’s going on in his head for a moment, Jon follows his gaze toward the opposite wall, finding a small box with a picture on the front: a young man with long dreadlocks, just like Tim’s, and a winning smile to match. There’s no doubt in Jon’s mind that this is Danny, and the box likely contains all Tim has left of him.

_Oh, Tim._

“Go back to the couch, Jon,” Tim repeats, scrubbing his hands roughly over his face before leaving them there, sniffling behind them.

“No, I don’t think I will.”

At this, Tim huffs out a wet laugh, a whisper of a thing, as he draws his knees upwards to lean his elbows upon them, face still hidden in his hands. They sit in silence for a few moments, Tim’s breathing even and carefully measured—before he starts to tremble, ever so slightly. All at once, Jon is transported back to the early days of his loss—the first anniversary, Danny’s birthday, the holidays—all papered over in layers and layers of grief. Certainly, he has not seen Tim like this for years—and it’s starting to scare him.

“What can I do?” he asks quietly, voice a bit hoarser than he’d expected.

“Just—it’s fine,” Tim manages to say, gritted out between his teeth, even as the trembling becomes more violent.

“I’ll…I’ll get you some water,” Jon decides, feeling helpless to do anything else.

As he stands, his entire body _aches aches aches—_ the blackening of his vision worse this time, as he feels himself starting to sway.

 _Stay up stay up stay up,_ he repeats to himself like a prayer, willing his shaking legs to gain their balance, his lungs to take deeper breaths with every passing moment. After what feels like a lifetime, he’s able to move again, and makes his way slowly into the kitchen to collect the promised water. It seems Martin has had a similar thought, as he emerges into the kitchen from the bathroom and nearly runs straight into him.

“Oh! Jon—why are you up?” he asks, his face immediately creasing with concern. “You don’t look well.”

Though he knows Martin is probably right, he’d rather not tell him that he’s there for Tim, hoping to give him as much privacy as he can.

“Erm—just getting some water,” he replies, taking a rather unsteady step toward the kitchen before Martin stops him with hand on his waist, so as not to aggravate the blisters on his upper body.

At least, that’s what Jon assumes the gesture is for, though he’s glad that Martin cannot see his shocked blush behind the scorching redness of his face.

“Let me, Jon, let me—just go back to the couch, you look like you’re about to fall over,” Martin insists, starting to usher him back toward the living room.

“No, Martin, I can—”

“Jon, just _please_ sit down—”

“It’s for Tim,” he says at last, careful to keep his voice down as he pushes Martin back by the shoulder. “It’s for Tim—he needs it.”

“For T—oh. _Oh._ Is he alright?” Martin asks, brows somehow furrowing even deeper, keeping the steadying hand on Jon’s waist.

“I—I don’t know. I just—I’m just bringing him some water,” Jon stammers, unable to find the words to describe what Tim is going through at the moment.

“Okay. Alright, just—here,” he turns, taking out a glass from the cupboard and filling it from the tap, before handing it to Jon. “I’ll be there in a second.”

Nodding briefly, Jon turns back toward the bedroom, brushing the tips of his fingers along the walls lining his path, just in case. When he enters again, Tim has not moved, nor has he stopped trembling. Jon pads toward him carefully, intentionally making some small noises to alert him to his presence. 

“Here—here’s the water,” he mumbles, setting the glass silently on the floor in front of him.

“Thanks,” Tim whispers after a moment, though he makes no move to reach for it.

For his part, Jon is merely relieved that he got a response. He moves to sit on the floor again—before thinking better of it, and lowering himself to sitting on the edge of Tim’s bed instead. 

_Wouldn’t do to collapse._

_Again._

“Hey, Tim,” Martin says softly, tiptoeing into the room as lightly as possible. “I’ve just got a blanket to put ‘round your shoulders, is that okay?”

In response, Tim huffs out that terrible, wet laugh again—bitten off sharply at the ends—before he nods his assent, face still hidden behind his shaking hands. Still keeping his steps light, Martin crosses the room, gently draping the blanket over Tim before settling down on the floor beside him.

After a moment or two, Martin finally speaks up in a whisper.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

The way he asks is so earnest, so gentle, so unassuming—as is the hand he lays carefully upon Tim’s back.

“Can’t,” Tim whispers back, voice rough and cracking.

“Okay. That’s okay—we’re here with you all the same. Whatever you need,” Martin replies, and Jon nods in agreement, though Tim cannot see it.

They remain in quiet remembrance—the only sounds the shaking of Tim’s shoulders, and the warm hand moving across his back.

\---

(present)

“Okay if I turn the light out?”

Martin stands near the wall, looking down in question at where Jon lies on the pull-out mattress they’ll be sharing for the night. It should be nothing—a throw-away question, a throw-away response—but something about the way he’s standing there, hair mussed and face blushing with alcohol, having traded his trousers for a pair of loose shorts and his binder for something lower in compression…

It’s very distracting.

“Jon?”

_Shit._

He blames his lack of response on alcohol, which he most certainly did not consume.

“Err—of course, that’s fine,” he stammers, once again grateful that his face couldn’t possibly go redder.

Without fuss, Martin flicks the switch off before settling in on his side of the bed, curling up with his back to Jon and letting out a long sigh of contentment. Jon can’t help but feel slightly jealous of the ease with which he does this, though he knows for a fact Martin would feel equally as awkward about it had he not been drinking. 

_At least, I think he would._

That now-familiar warmth that’s been pooling in his stomach with increasing frequency over the past few months washes over him again…and he finds he does not particularly mind. It’s just Martin, after all—Martin _is_ warmth, it seems.

_Ridiculous._

Grinning hazily into the darkness, Jon quickly drops off to sleep.

\---

He’s awake.

He’s awake, and it all feels wrong.

Blinking into the blinding dark, Jon takes a moment—noticing the rushing of the blood through his ears, the tingling in his limbs, his chest beginning to beat _faster faster faster—_

_I can’t—_

_No air_

White hot stars explode across his vision as he lurches up to sitting, hearing nothing but the _pounding pounding pounding_ of his pulse, clutching at it as he begs the Eye to tell him the symptoms of a heart attack, feeling up and down his arm for numbness—

Then his stomach drops into the floor, and every vein sparks up a fire.

_I—I can’t—_

_Martin Martin Martin Martin_

He knows he’s shaking him awake, knows his arms have reached out into the darkness, but cannot feel the warmth he knows radiates from Martin’s skin.

_I can’t feel it I can’t feel—_

“J’n? Oh—J-Jon, are you alright?”

_Please please please_

In an instant, the lights are on, everything in the living room illuminated in a spinning, sickening glow.

“Jon, can you hear me?”

And Martin is in front of him now, voice muffled beneath the waves of panic—

“You’re having a panic attack, Jon.”

_Panic_

_A panic attack?_

“Swing your legs over the side of the bed, okay? Put your head down.”

Martin’s hands guide him there, settle his feet so they touch the ground, pushing his head gently toward his knees.

And he can’t feel any of it.

“M-Martin—” he chokes, gasping desperately at each end.

“I’m right here, it’s alright.”

_It’s not it’s not it’s not_

Jon can see Martin’s hand resting on his knee, but there’s no pressure, no warmth—nothing.

“I know it’s scary, but you will get through it. I promise.”

_Where are you where are you—_

Jon reaches out for his hand, clutching it tightly in his own, desperate for the warmth to seep past the numbness of it.

“That’s right,” Martin encourages, moving a bit closer. “I’m right here.”

“I won’t let anything harm you.”

_Harm me_

_So much that could harm_

And his vision is flooded with images of the swirling chaos of the Unknowing, of a great, unblinking Eye, of Elias lurking somewhere, anywhere, everywhere, _watching watching always watching—_

“Mar—tin—”

His breaths have picked up unfathomable speed now.

“I’m here, love, I’m here.”

“C-Can’t—”

Darkness swirls at the edges of his vision, threatening to pull him under—and Jon has never been more certain that this is the end of his days.

“A- _ah!_ Mar—tin—I-I-I—can’t—”

“You can, Jon, I promise.”

_I’m dying I’m dying I’m dying_

“I’m right here. You’re safe. You’re safe with me.”

_Safe safe safe_

The word adds itself to the endless spinning jumble of Jon’s mind, giving it a focus, disbanding a bit of its horrible shape.

“What’s going on?

Tim’s voice echoes through the room from far away, the sound of it barely loud enough to hear.

“It’s alright, we’re just working on breathing now,” Martin replies, voice calming and gentle, squeezing Jon’s hand as he does.

“I’ll get him some water.”

Jon’s ears have begun ringing—the dizziness fading at once into lightheadedness as his body cries out for oxygen.

“I know it’s hard, Jon. But can you take a breath with me?”

_A breath_

_With me_

Jon looks up ever so slightly to where Martin has pulled his hand to rest against his chest, letting him feel it as it slowly rises and falls like the tide.

_Breathe_

_Breathe_

_Have to_

_Breathe_

Against everything his body is telling him to do, Jon takes half a shuddering inhale—before his mind screams at him to stop, causing him to gasp and heave and double back over at once.

_Pass out_

_Gonna pass out_

“Alright, it’s alright—just try again. Try again for me, Jon.”

_Try_

_For you_

_I want_

_I’m scared_

“I’m right here, love.”

He tries again.

And again.

And again.

“Good, Jon, that’s really good,” Martin soothes, running his thumb over the back of Jon’s palm, and this time—he can feel it. 

_Warm_

_So warm_

Jon shudders against the relative chill of the remainder of his body, and someone drapes the sheet over his shoulders, letting him slowly come back to the present.

“—so well, Jon. That was really hard, and you’re strong. You’re strong,” Martin says—and at last, Jon is able to look up at him.

The gorgeous hazel of his eyes nearly takes his breath away again.

“Hi.”

It’s all he can think to say.

“Hi yourself,” Martin chuckles, smiling with what Jon knows must be relief. “You with us?”

By “us,” he must mean himself and Tim—who sits on the floor a little ways back, glass of water at the ready, an angered sort of concern evident on his face.

_God, Tim._

“I’m sorry,” Jon mutters in dismay, clapping a hand over his mouth as he realizes that he must have woken him, must have interrupted the healing sleep he so desperately needed.

“Don’t even start with that, Jon,” he replies at once, glaring at him severely.

“Tim—”

“ _I mean it._ It’s not your fault.”

Jon eyes lock onto his, his next inhale to speak dying in his throat. Bowing his head, he nods, reluctantly letting the matter go with a constant litany of internalized apologies.

“Here, have some water,” Martin says as he taps lightly on Jon’s knee, encouraging him to take the glass from his hands.

Still a bit shaky, he reaches for it, sipping cautiously for several long moments—long enough for the quiet to sit heavy in his chest.

“How are you feeling?” Martin asks, not taking his eyes off him for even a moment.

 _It doesn’t matter_ , Jon thinks, before once again trying to bury the thought.

_No, it does matter._

_To them at least._

Sighing, he searches for the words to express it, something palatable enough that his tongue will let him speak—

“Fuzzy?” Martin interrupts, offering him the perfect word with ease.

_Martin…Martin has these._

_This has happened to him._

_He knows._

“…y-yeah. Fuzzy.”

“Yeah. It’s—it’s alright, that’s only natural I suppose,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “Been a bit of a rough go.”

The kind smile Martin offers him now, even with the dark circles beneath his eyes, forces Jon to smile back—and his gaze is immediately directed toward Martin’s hand, which still strokes the top of his knee. Jolting a bit, Martin pulls it back at once, blushing fit to burst.

And Jon finds himself wishing he hadn’t stopped.

“Was it a normal one, then?” Tim asks, straightening his posture with a crack of his shoulders. “Ow, god—I mean, do you get panic attacks often?”

“No,” Jon replies, fumbling to direct his attention towards Tim. “No, I-I’ve never had one.”

“Do you think it was…not _just_ a panic attack?” Martin asks, before his eyes go wide. “I-I mean—I didn’t mean _just,_ I know they’re horrid, I just meant—”

“I know, Martin,” Jon cuts him off. “I know what you meant, and—”

He thinks back for a moment, trying not to dwell for long on the whole affair…but he recalls the vision at the center of it, the one of the fears, of the Eye, of Elias.

“—no, I don’t think it was. A normal panic attack, that is.”

“Had a,” Tim waves his hands spookily in the air. “Creepy edge, as you’ve said?”

Jon wrinkles his nose at the tone.

“I suppose.”

“Hey, your words, not mine.”

As always, with Tim, he’s able to pull a smile from him—a corner of his mouth quirking up slightly, before his head begins spinning again. He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes at once, fighting against the headache he can feel building there.

“Jon? You alright?”

Martin’s hand has found its way back to his knee once again, and Jon has never felt it so easy to be honest.

“Yeah I—I think I’m still coming down from it,” he whispers, unable to look back up.

“Hey, that’s okay. We’ll sit here as long as you need.”

Guilt, punishing and miserable, starts to claw its way out of his throat.

“I’m so—”

_No._

“I mean—thank you. For helping me,” he manages to choke out at last, against his every instinct.

“It’s no trouble, Jon,” Tim says at once, and Jon can hear the smile in his words plain as day. “I’ll get you some more water.”

“We’ll talk it over in the morning,” Martin says, adjusting the sheet over Jon’s shoulders. “For now, let’s just get some rest.”


	6. The Eye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Eye is the fear of being watched, watched, exposed, followed, of having secrets known.

By Friday, Martin isn’t sure who, between the three of them, is sleeping less: Tim, who seems to be having some trouble adjusting to his new place and all its creaking (which he, inevitably, every time, has to get up in the middle of the night to investigate, armed with CO2, just in case), Jon, whose sunburn has only recently abated enough that he doesn’t wake up in burning pain every time he moves under the covers, or Martin himself, with his increasingly regular anxiety attacks about the idea of not waking up to his phone if it were to ring with an emergency regarding the former two. 

Martin is nodding off at his desk during the worst of the afternoon slump when Jon comes up behind him and taps his shoulder, startling him awake so abruptly that Jon takes a step back, hands raised in surrender. 

“Sorry,” Jon apologizes, “I didn’t mean to scare you.” 

“No, that’s--that’s on me,” Martin stammers. Embarrassment colors his cheeks pink as he avoids Jon’s eyes. 

“Do you have a moment for a word in my office?” 

Martin, for all his lack of experience and resume lying and tendency to overstep boundaries in terms of doting on his coworkers, has never in his life been privately scolded. Sure, Jon has a habit of snapping, but it’s universal; it loses its heat in a way he’s pretty sure is intentional because Jon uses the same tone for everything from being late on a deadline to walking into his office without knocking while he’s recording. It’s a measured amount of discouragement, the kind that sounds so much more aggressive than it is that the effect is, after he’d gotten used to it, rather mild, almost endearing. Jon isn’t good at praise, so he sets the expectation at negative reinforcement so that even an offhanded “thanks” reads as a glowing review. 

Numbly, Martin nods, feeling his hands start to shake and the blood drain from his face. Jon, for his part, looks relatively indifferent about the whole thing as he returns to his office, despite that he’s clearly about to give Martin a scolding so deeply personal that it has to be done in private, something Jon has never seemed to care about before. Jon wouldn’t fire him, would he? Could he even do that if he tried? 

Martin feels lightheaded as he stands, blinking away humiliating, hot tears from his eyes as he moves to follow Jon—

But Tim intercepts him. 

Rather, Martin, in his state, runs straight into him, barely managing to avoid making him spill his coffee all down the front of both of them. 

“Woah, Marto, careful,” he warns, and though it’s said in the same jovial tone he always uses, the timing sets him off, hyperventilating and swiping uselessly at his eyes. “Oh, shit,” Tim curses. He sets the coffee on the corner of Martin’s desk and whisks him off to the restroom, careful not to draw any attention. There, he sits on the floor and allows Martin to join him, close enough that he could reach out if it would help but not so close as to make him feel suffocated. 

“Breathe, Martin,” Tim coaxes, “you can do it. This is a panic attack, right? Like Jon had?” Martin nods. “So this is how you knew what it was so quickly. Do you want me to go get Jon?” 

Martin’s eyes go wide and he chokes on a sob, collapsing forward with one hand tangled in Tim’s sweater, desperately, wordlessly begging him not to. “Okay, okay. I won’t do that. It’s just us. I’ve got you.” 

Martin has had these before, he reminds himself, and he’s survived each time. As the worst of it passes, he focuses on Tim’s voice, soft and warm and kind, chat about nonsense, most of it funny and stupid and so utterly, uniquely Tim that it brings him back to the moment. 

They’re getting easier to come down from, if only marginally. His therapist said that would happen, but he hadn’t wanted to get his hopes up. 

Maybe there could be a normal on the other side of all this. 

“Oh, right!” Tim whisper-exclaims, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small tin. “I, er, Googled some tips on what to do after Jon had his, and I read that some people use their senses to ground themselves. Apparently taste is a powerful one. Do you want a mint? Your breathing seems controlled enough that you won’t choke on it, now.” 

Martin huffs a laugh through his nose and nods. It’s worth a try, and if nothing else, he usually pops a mint before meetings, anyway, so there’s no harm in it. 

“Thank you,” he says, his voice still strained, but recovering. 

“Anything you need, Martin, you know that,” Tim dismisses. He hesitates. “Want to tell me what that was about, or will that start the spiral all over again?”

Martin shakes his head. “No, no,” he reassures, “it was a reactionary thing, I think. It’s nothing, really. I just--Jon wants to talk to me. In his office. In private. Because I fell asleep at my desk.” 

Tim waits for the other shoe to drop, frowning when it doesn’t. “That’s it?” 

“Er--yes?” 

“Oh, Martin, my sweet, sweet boy,” Tim laughs, “Jon only calls you into his office privately if he wants a favor. I’m sure it’s to protect his pride more than yours.”

“Really?”

“Of course! There’s no reason to worry.” 

Martin nods, getting to his feet slowly to make sure he’s steady, and splashes some water in his face. Tim is still hovering nervously. 

“Are you sure you’re okay? If you need more time—”

“No, I’m alright,” Martin says with more conviction than he feels. “Better to just get it over with.”

“If you need me to kick Jon’s ass later, just say the word,” Tim offers, but it’s fond, nothing like it might have sounded just a few months ago. 

Martin knocks on the door to Jon’s office and waits for the vague, distracted, “come in,” before pushing it open and hesitating in the doorway. 

“You, erm, wanted to see me?” he asks meekly, and Jon nods. His face gives nothing away, but Martin takes that to mean that perhaps, at the very least, he’s not angry. Small blessings, right?

“Yes. Have a seat, if you’d like.” 

“I actually think I’d prefer to stand.” Jon blinks in surprise, which makes Martin backtrack. “That is, if that’s alright.” 

“Of course,” Jon says. “It’s all the same to me. Shut the door?”

Martin does, and steps forward to stand in front of Jon’s desk. To Tim’s credit, he may be right: Jon doesn’t look angry, but he hasn’t actually given Martin his full attention yet, either, so he can feel his heart hammering away in his chest in anticipation. 

“Sorry,” Jon apologizes casually, straightening out his desk, “I’m… well, you know me. Wrapped up in something. Anyway, I wanted to speak with you. The sleeping at your desk.” 

Martin’s stomach drops. Tim was wrong; he is in trouble and it’s embarrassing and terrifying and—

“Martin? Are you alright?” 

“Fine,” he replies reflexively, stumbling slightly to sit in the chair across from Jon’s desk, because if he doesn’t sit down now, he’s pretty sure he’s going to end up passing out. “I know it’s not--acceptable, but it was an accident, and it won’t--won’t happen again—”

“Martin, slow down,” Jon scolds lightly, gently, concernedly. He’s not mad. He looks worried. “You’re not in trouble; good lord. Breathe, please. Do you need a moment?”

Martin blinks. “I’m not—?”

“No, of course not! I’m just concerned!” 

“Concerned?” 

Now, it’s Jon’s turn to look mildly anxious. “Well, yes. I know that Tim and I haven’t exactly been sleeping well, recently, but you seem like you’re… I don’t mean to be rude. It’s just that I can’t help but feel as though I’m stressing you out. Because of everything that’s been happening. Particularly with me.” 

Martin laughs, breathy and light. “That’s a relief,” he says. “I thought I was being sacked.” 

Jon’s face turns stern, almost hurt. “You don’t really think I’d do that, do you? Sack you for falling asleep? Especially after everything you’ve done for me… You’re not just a coworker to me. And I would hope I’m not just your arsehole boss anymore.” 

“Jon, you were never my arsehole boss,” Martin argues, but he buckles under a scrutinizing look. “Okay, fine! But I never disliked you for it.” A little of the blood that had drained from his face returns straight to his cheeks. 

“I’m just worried,” Jon continues, “that perhaps you’ve been so busy making sure that everyone else is okay that you’re neglecting your own needs. And, I suppose, that I’m adding to your burden.”

“No, Jon, you’re not,” Martin is quick to reassure. However, the disappointed, distressed look he earns from Jon makes him reconsider. “Though you… might have a point about the, erm, neglecting my, eh, needs, bit. I’ve got a tendency to do that. My mum, growing up, friends, and a few boyfriends along the way… I just default to what I know.” 

“Well, I’m really glad to hear you admit it,” Jon says. “I like it when you’re honest with me. What would make it easier?” 

“Oh, you don’t have to—!” 

“Martin,” Jon insists. “It’s not fair, really: I’ve had to be so vulnerable lately, with no reciprocation. I would feel much more comfortable if you told me why you’re having so much trouble sleeping.” 

Martin fiddles with the edges of his sleeves. It’s hard to respond to a question he’s never been asked before, and he hadn’t noticed until just this moment just how long it’s been since he last checked in with his own body. 

“I guess,” he starts quietly, “I get worried that something bad might happen, and I’d miss it, because I was sleeping. And the more sleep I miss, the more I start to feel as if I’d sleep through my phone ringing.” 

Jon nods wisely, like he’s considering this. His greying hair has fallen partially out of the messy bun he’s tied to keep it out of his face, and Martin can’t help but think of how tired he looks, too. 

“Would it help if you stayed over?” Jon asks, so bluntly that Martin thinks he must have misheard. “At my place, I mean. Just--just for the night.” 

“I couldn’t ask you to—”

“I’m the one asking,” Jon curtails. “I think it might kill a number of birds with one stone. You’re worried about missing calls. Tim’s not used to sleeping in his new flat. And I’m--well. As I say. A few problems might be lessened with one solution. What do you say?” 

Jon is usually not a confident man in anything except his work, and Martin gets the distinct feeling that he’s rehearsed this a few times, if the detached tone and lack of eye contact are anything to measure by. 

“Tim’s agreed to this as well?”

“He will as soon as he hears it’ll help you sleep,” Jon promises. “And if we promise to watch Ghostbusters. He loves Ghostbusters.” That part is annoyed, but fond. 

Martin can’t help but laugh. “Alright, then,” he caves. “I’ll be there if Tim goes. And if you’re sure you’re feeling up to hosting—”

“I’m looking forward to it, actually,” Jon cuts him off again. “Something normal, for once, you know? Disguised as normal, at least, which is the best we can ask for, these days.” 

Martin nods. “I’ll bring snacks,” Martin promises. “Just--just let me know the time, and I’ll be there.” 

That’s how Jon ends up with the first proper sleepover he’s ever thrown. 

As a child, his grandmother had always struggled enough to tolerate one child under her roof, so sleepovers were out of the question. Birthday parties were typically held at a secondary location like a pizza arcade or, as he got older, movie theaters and concerts, until he aged out of throwing them completely. He’d been to them, of course--a few times a year, growing up, and then a few times a week at Georgie’s (she didn’t like to sleep anywhere but her bed, so she’d always turned down the invitations he’d extended for her to stay at his) when they were dating, and quite frequently at the Institute, though that hardly counted as a sleepover, since he rarely slept.

He finds himself feeling excited, which makes him feel a bit childish, but in a good way. As he’d predicted, Tim had agreed as soon as Jon had mentioned Martin would be there, but surprisingly, he hadn’t actually seemed terribly opposed to the idea even before--more confused than outraged. 

Progress.

He’d rented Ghostbusters from a local video shop and had grabbed a few other films he’d heard them mention before, too, since gathering a group of insomniacs for a sleepover probably meant they’d be watching more than one movie. Martin and Tim had separately promised to bring snacks, but Jon bought some popcorn and candy while he was there, too, just to be safe. 

Just as he's finishing up cleaning the kitchen, he hears the knock on the door. 

“Hi, Jon,” Martin greets as Jon ushers him in, then Tim, who wasn’t far behind. Best to be punctual when it’s a sleepover at the boss’ house, he supposes. Though, after everything that’s happened, the illegitimacy of the Institute as a place of well-intentioned research and the lack of real structure therefore within, how much weight does being their boss really hold? He can’t fire them, despite Martin’s earlier anxieties--hell, they can’t even quit, and now that all their work has been shifted away from statement research and towards finding Elias, they’re all on a level playing field in terms of job duties. 

“Think fast,” Tim yells from several paces down the hall before throwing a box at terminal velocity towards Jon’s face, which he fumbles with for a moment before ultimately catching. “Hey, nice catch!” he praises, laughing, while Jon reads the box--some kind of jam filled shortbread biscuit, nothing that had any business being thrown at his head. 

But he’s happy that Tim at least wants to play again. It’s been so long…

He smiles. “I’ll put these on a plate,” he says, “unless you’ve brought some sort of catcher’s mitt for serving.” 

Tim gives both Jon and Martin a hug when he finally gets to the door, and closes it behind him. 

“What’d you bring, Marto?” he asks, gesturing to the plastic bag in his hands. 

“Oh, just some crisps and candy. Standard movie night stuff, I guess, right?”

Tim looks sternly to Jon. “You got it?” 

After a beat for comprehension, Jon irritably rolls his eyes and crosses to the kitchen counter, shoving the Ghostbusters DVD into his chest with all the rage of a man who wanted a real fight. 

“Yes, Tim. Put it in before I change my mind.” 

While Tim fiddles with the DVD player, Jon prepares things in the kitchen, placing the biscuits on a plate and crisps into bowls. When Martin reaches into his cupboard and grabs three glasses, Jon hesitates, ending up staring at him for a moment as Martin tries to hand them over. 

“Uh, Jon?” Martin calls, smiling awkwardly. “Everything alright?” 

Jon snaps himself out of it with a shake of his head. “Yes,” he replies, “sorry. Just thinking.”

“Oh? What about?”

_ The fact that it feels nice that you know where I keep my cups without having to search for them. The fact that it feels nice that you were able to grab the cups without wanting to ask me first because you knew I was going to forget them, because you know I’m bad about drinking anything unless I’m reminded. The fact that it feels nice to be known, lowercase, for the first time since this all started.  _

“Just--I’m glad you’re here,” he says instead of any of that, and though Martin probably would have loved to hear the former, he beams at the latter, anyway. 

“The movie is ready to start whenever you are,” Tim announces. “Need a hand in the kitchen?” 

Martin looks to Jon, who balances the plate and bowls while Martin carries the drinks. 

“We’re good,” Jon replies, wishing he believed it applied beyond tonight but grateful for these few hours regardless. “Let’s go ahead and start it up.”

As always, in these types of scenarios, Jon is the last one to fall asleep. Tim had only made it a little past midnight before he was out like a light--attempting to stay up later apparently had the opposite effect, and Martin had covered him with a blanket and straightened him out on the couch. Martin and Jon had chatted a bit after Tim fell asleep, but it wasn’t long before Martin was sleepy, too. He’d tried to fight it, for Jon’s sake, but Jon had reminded him that Martin getting some actual rest was the whole point of this, anyway, and when that hadn’t worked, he’d pretended to feel drowsy himself, lying down in the comforter-nest on the floor and listened as Martin’s breathing slowed to a faint, slow snoring. 

He wants to sleep. He needs to sleep, and it’s not like he isn’t tired: his day had started just as early as theirs had, possibly earlier, and he can’t even remember the last night of restful sleep he’s gotten. Probably, it was some time before college. Certainly not within the past few years, even with all the times he’s been ill in the past months: that sleep had always been fitful, uncomfortable, and heavily interrupted. 

Something about knowing that Martin and Tim are here, that the only two people in the world that understand what he’s going through feel safe enough to sleep…

Well. It doesn’t make it easy, not at all. But his eyelids start to feel heavy around 3:30, and the next thing he knows, he’s drifted. 

_ Jon is in his office, writing, although he can’t quite make out anything on the page, and cold. There’s a heavy, dizzy feeling surrounding him, one he’s gotten uncomfortably accustomed to in the past few months: something is here with him, an Entity trying to make a pass. _

_ He shuts his eyes and takes a steadying breath, and when he opens them, the walls of his office are gone. He’s not alone, although he doesn’t know who else is in the room with him, because he can’t see anyone. Everywhere he looks, there are Eyes until his vision focuses enough to reveal that he cannot see them. _

_ But they can see him.  _

_ They don’t blink. They don’t need to.  _

_ When Jon looks back down at his paper, he still can’t read it, but he is distinctly aware of what it says: secret thoughts that he wants to keep for himself, fears and suspicions that were never quite assuaged, feelings that he’s nowhere near ready to articulate even in his own mind, not to mention to someone else.  _

_ The Eyes belong to everyone. Everyone knows that he Knows the Eyes belong to everyone. Suddenly, it’s not just the paper in front of him to which he’s confessing, but the open air of his wallless office, his thoughts streaming out his mouth and eyes and ears and heart like thick, black ink, hanging above him in dense ropes that then tie themselves tight around his wrists, ankles, and throat— _

He sits up with a gasp, a loud one, and clutches his chest. Though he’s pleasantly warm from sleeping next to Martin on the floor, he’s shivering, and small chill bumps prickle at his skin uncomfortably. 

“Jon?” Martin calls quietly, groggily, which startles him into jumping again. “Are you alright?” 

Jon nods jerkily. “Y-yes,” he replies unconvincingly. “I’m fine. Sorry. Go back to sleep.” 

“You’re shaking,” Martin argues. 

“Wha’s’a’ppnin’?” Tim slurs as he wakes gracefully on the couch. 

“It’s nothing,” Jon replies, “just a nightmare. I’m going to get some water. Just go back to sleep.” 

When Jon stands, the cold, dizzy feeling rushes back, making him sway so hard that Martin rushes to his feet to steady him. 

“I’ll get the water,” he offers sternly. “Just sit down, please, before you fall over.” 

Jon nods, happy to oblige: his head is spinning something awful, and walking even just the short distance to the kitchen sounds exhausting. 

“Was it really just a nightmare?” Tim asks lowly. Jon shrugs. 

“Probably not,” he admits. “I’m not feeling very well, suddenly. Probably a…”

“A spooky thing,” Tim supplies. He sits up on the couch and presses a hand to Jon’s cheek, nodding. “You’re not feverish, for once. Get these often?” 

“Not like that.” 

“Brought the water,” Martin says, “and I’m heating up water for tea.” 

Tim breaks into a grin. “Martin K. Blackwood, battling fear itself, one cup of tea at a time.” 

Jon allows Martin to keep his hands steady while he sips from the water, willing the dizziness and chills to pass. His ears are ringing unpleasantly, threatening to turn the slight buzzing at the base of his skull into a headache. 

“You two don’t have to stay up with me,” Jon reassures. “I’m fine. Just feeling a bit… ugh. It’ll pass.” 

“And we’ll stay awake until it does,” Martin says, and Jon frowns. 

“The whole point of this was for you to get some sleep.”

“Then, we’ll sleep in tomorrow,” he argues, “all of us.” 

Tim pats Jon on the shoulder in agreement. 

“Can I have tea, too?” Tim asks, flashing puppy eyes to Martin, who rolls his eyes as if he’s immune even though he’s not. 

“I’ll bring three mugs,” he sighs exasperatedly. “And the biscuits.” 

Jon closes his eyes as the chills abate. 


	7. The Lonely

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER 7 BABY!!!!! We’re halfway there!
> 
> Get ready for....The Lonely! The fear of isolation, of disconnection, of being unknown, or not understood. One of my greatest fears!!
> 
> CW: self-deprecating thoughts
> 
> Please enjoy!! <3

Jon had been mistaken—he was getting ill, after all.

After Tim and Martin had left the next morning, eyes still bleary even at 11am, Jon immediately sank back down into the sofa—feeling free at last to nurse his growing headache. Over the course of the afternoon, those lovely shaking chills came back, accompanied this time by an incessant buildup in his sinuses and scratching at the back of his throat. Naturally, he was ill—of course he was getting ill, the inevitable consequence of missing so much sleep for god knows how long now.

It’s not that he’s hiding it from the others, not exactly. Just that it seems so very small in comparison to everything else he’s dealt with over the past few months. Having a bit of a cold after a sunburn from nowhere, panic attacks, nightmares, and the pneumonia from hell—well, this seems a bit of a walk in the park, all things considered. A nice reminder of his humanity, even. After all, he’s dealt with plenty of colds in his life—usually able to work through them without much fuss—but even so, it’s the weekend, and he is free to lounge about however he pleases, hoping that the rest he’s come to recognize as a need will prevent him from being symptomatic come Monday.

As he lies on the couch, slowly becoming covered in blankets and tissues, his phone buzzes beneath his thigh.

**Martin:** thanks for having us, Jon! hope you’ll take a nap today! <3

_Ah, Martin._

Smirking a bit into his phone screen, he taps out a reply.

**Jon:** Thank you for coming. I hope you will rest as well. Take care.

And, with a bit of hesitation…

**Jon:** <3

Texting—that’s something they’ve been doing more of, recently. It had only been within the last few months that Martin had stopped signing every message with “-M,” at last assuming that Jon had made a contact for him in his phone. Which is quite a silly thought, of course, but a very _Martin_ thought all the same. Perhaps his anxiety has been helped a bit through the advice of his therapist—who Martin had admitted to seeing, after Jon had texted and phoned him through the threat of yet another panic attack. Something about the fact that Martin had asked _him_ , had wanted _him_ to help talk him down…it set something small and glowing in him each time he thought about it.

Raising the blanket up to his chin, he lets himself fall deeply asleep with a smile on his lips.

—

It seems that his trick had worked—the rest he had managed to get on the weekend set him up nicely for the week ahead, with barely a sniffle to be heard, and no medicine necessary. All in all, he’s feeling quite proud, certain in his judgement that, if Tim and Martin were to find out, they would be pleased with how well he had managed to take care of himself for the past few days. As soon as he has that thought, he can’t help but roll his eyes at himself—what had he come to, a grown man, looking for his _assis_ —no, _friends’_ —approval for being able to function on his own for once?

_Be kind to yourself,_ he hears Martin’s voice in his head at once. And so he tries.

As he steps into the lift he pulls a tissue from his pocket, scrubbing it hurriedly under his nose before the doors open into the archive, revealing…both Tim and Martin, having arrived early, each with coffees in hand.

_Oh._

“Morning boss!” Tim calls, turning towards him with a beaming smile, as Martin holds up a second travel cup from where he’s sitting on top of Tim’s desk. “Didn’t think you were a coffee person, so we got you some tea!”

_From the shop. Without me._

**_Stop_ ** _it._

“Morning,” he replies with as grateful a smile as he can manage, voice coming out unexpectedly ragged. “Thank you, that’s—“

But something catches in his throat as he speaks, causing his head to snap quickly to the left to cough into his elbow. Surely something just went down the wrong pipe, but—now it seems he can’t stop, nearly doubling over with the force of it, getting only short breaths in between the harsh echo.

“Christ, Jon, you choke on something?” Tim asks as he feels the weight of his hand on his back, as Martin reaches over to his own desk to hand him a water bottle.

“F-fine, I—“ he breaks off to cough painfully once more, before unscrewing the bottle cap and taking a sip. “Sorry, I don’t—I don’t know what that’s about.”

The hoarseness of his voice in the wake of his fit alarms even Jon himself, so he cannot blame Tim and Martin for eyeing him oddly for a moment. But this is all so silly, they don’t need to worry about it, it’s just a remnant of whatever illness he had clearly underestimated over the weekend—though how, he is not sure. 

“Thank you for the tea,” he croaks a bit curtly, taking it from where it sits on Tim’s desk and retreating rapidly to his office, closing the door for the first time in recent memory.

Behind it, he is sure he can hear the muffled sounds of their laughter—reverberating through the closing walls of his chest in a painful cacophony.

—

“I can no longer say with confidence what it was I saw. The dreadful th—the dread--ful—“

Yet again, the buzzing of his sinuses gets the better of Jon—forcing him to turn away from the tape recorder to muffle a few rapid-fire sneezes into his sleeve, sniffing heavily in their wake. 

“—the dreadful shape—of it—“

But it’s all for nought, as a cough tears its way out of his chest again, pulsing painfully against his now-spinning head. It’s got to be terrible audio, all things considered—but what choice does he have? He has to do this, doesn’t he?

_Wait, do I?_

_Why do I have to do this?_

For the life of him, Jon cannot answer this question. Some deep and terrible part of himself tells him of reality, of the mere perception of choice, a vision of himself blinded, a rat in a maze, those above you insisting you are responsible to choose your path—when really, how is that a choice at all? He wants to know—has to _Know_ —and he draws upon the power within himself as if begging for even a drop of water from a tap long run dry.

_Show me._

_Show me my choices._

But there is nothing—only the infinite black, centerpieced by a great unblinking Eye, staring inward, pointing _inward—_ consuming him with every moment that passes. His head _pounds pounds pounds_ with the strain, as the fog rolls in over his thought processes—and he breaks the connection, slumping over his desk at once.

_Perhaps I do have a fever after all._

A few moments of peace, of rest are all he would require now, he thinks—but of course Tim would have to burst through the door, shattering the lovely daydream he’d just begun of sitting upon the ocean shore, waves gently lapping at his feet.

“Jon!” he shouts, sounding more alarmed than he has any right to be at this time of the morning. “Jon—haven’t you heard me calling for you?”

Blinking blearily at him for a few moments, Jon rubs an hand over his exhausted eyes as he replies.

“…no?”

_Christ, is that my voice?_

“Jesus.”

No sooner does the sacrilege leave Tim’s mouth than Jon doubles over again, throat a red hot iron around the uncontrollable coughing that rips through it, causing his eyes to water at once.

“You need to go home, okay?” Tim says, voice gentler than Jon had expected. “Seriously. You sound absolutely horrendous.”

“Poor thing,” Martin chimes in as the fit ends, Jon miserably wiping his face with a sleeve covering one shaking hand. “You look awful. No offense.”

Jon wants to tell him that he _is_ offended, actually—but then Martin sets down another cup of tea in front of him, probably rich with honey and lemon if Jon were able to smell it—and some part of his fever-addled brain deflates. He hasn’t the heart to tell Martin he couldn’t drink any of the first cup either.

Opening his mouth and taking a cautious breath, Jon moves his lips around the shape of “thank you—“ but no sound escapes him now.

“Why did you come to work this ill?” Tim asks, tone reaching back into his usual frustrated scolding.

_I did try,_ he wants to say. _I did try to take care of this myself. I wanted to more than anything._

But he cannot say that, for his voice will not allow him—and instead settles for rolling his eyes and dropping his gaze.

“Nothing to say for yourself, eh?”

_…what?_

Looking up in alarm, Jon searches Tim’s face for meaning, panicked over the thought that Tim might be angry with him, again—

“Tim.”

“Come on, it was funny!”

“Not when you’re feverish. Which, clearly, he is.”

_Ah. A joke then._

Allowing himself to let out a little relieved sigh, Jon quickly finds himself coughing again, lips closing around it in an effort to stifle the painful barking—but by the way Martin tuts at him, gently brushing back his fringe as he shivers, he supposes he must have been rather unsuccessful.

“I’m driving you home, Jon. You shouldn’t be on the Tube in this state,” he says, reaching up for Jon’s jacket where it hangs next to the door, draping it over his shoulders. “Come on then—up you get.”

With no small amount of unpleasantness, Jon finds his way to his feet—wishing he had brought his cane with him after all, as he’s led out into the cold of the London fog.

—

“Jon? We’re here.”

“Wh—“

He starts, banging an elbow painfully against the door of— _Martin’s car?_ —he supposes. It’s all a bit muddled, his lovely dream of the ocean shore once again interrupted by the unfortunate necessity of consciousness.

“You okay? You look a bit…out of it,” Martin asks, brows furrowing as he tilts his head to look at him in concern.

“F-Fi—“

But Jon cannot manage to get even a single word out, the rough sandpaper of his throat protesting loudly enough to cause that terrible barking cough to start up again, the force of it pitching him forward in the seat. Martin thankfully hands him a tissue as his nose begins to drip rather badly, and Jon swipes it vigorously against the damp.

“Can’t catch a break, can you?”

Without looking up, Jon can hear the soft smile on his lips; can’t help but smile just a bit in return—huffing out a silent bit of laughter at the ridiculousness of his situation.

“You okay to get up to your flat?” he asks as Jon finally looks up, and Jon nods his answer—though some small (large) part of him wants desperately for Martin to come up with him, to stay for a bit—

_Ridiculous. Must be the fever._

“Right then. Take some fever reducers when you get in. And let me know if you’ve got cold medicine—I’ll bring you some if not, okay?” he continues gently, the warm hazel of his eyes reflecting in the daylight as Jon looks on, feeling just about the luckiest person in the world to see it. “Text me if you need anything.”

_God, I’d love to kiss you._

_…!!!!!!_

_What what what what what_

He’s panicked—has to get out of the car at once, can’t let Martin see, can’t let him know—and now he’s stumbling out of the door and onto the pavement, doing his best to act as naturally as possible as his head swims with the sudden movement.

“Sure you’re alright?” Martin calls from the driver’s seat, looking a bit…confused now, after this sudden and rather clumsy performance.

Jon nods and gives his thumbs up, hoping to god that the furious blush he can feel painting the entirety of his face and neck will read as just part of the fever, or will be hidden by distance and the darkness of his skin.

“Alright. Feel better, Jon,” he says with finality, flashing him a smile—and of course, he would wait to see him get into the building safely.

Turning at once, he fumbles gracelessly with the keys in his pocket, taking far to long to find the right one, and _god please let him stay in the car, don’t let him get out—_

He finds it at last, turning the lock on the main door and giving a wave as Martin drives away.

—

Pacing back and forth in his living room, Jon taps out the fifth version of this message in the last ten minutes.

**Jon:** Martin, I did not mean to make you uncomfortable and

_No no, don’t assume his feelings._

_It could be far worse than that._

_..oh god oh god oh god_

**Jon:** Martin, I apologize for my behavior. It will not happen again.

_Good enough, I suppose._

His finger hovers over the send key, something telling him to be cautious, to really make sure he’s thought this through—

_…did he really notice anything?_

_Did I say anything out loud?_

Thinking back quickly, Jon plays through the scene in his mind—of course, he has no idea what his face looked like, but…his voice is gone, after all. He couldn’t possibly have said anything, couldn’t possibly…

_No. He probably doesn’t know._

_Right?_

Trying to groan in dramatic frustration, Jon finds himself only engaged in yet another coughing fit—driving him toward the kitchen to look for medicine. Though he was sure that he had some squirreled away, he can no longer find it, and goes for a glass of water instead. It’s what Martin would want. If he were here.

_Right. Martin._

Flopping down on the couch does wonders for his aching leg, the dull ache of it having been quashed by the panic of the last few minutes.

**Jon:** I do not have cold medicine.

**Jon:** Thank you, Martin.

**Jon:** ~~< 3~~

_No no, best not._

Wondering what on earth is wrong with him, Jon downs the glass of water as quickly as possible, flopping over at once to drop off to sleep.

—

It’s both the heat and the freezing cold that wakes him again. The afternoon sky, now-darkened with rain-sodden clouds, finds Jon shivering beneath his blanket, which he no longer remembers tugging onto himself. _Cold, cold, it’s so cold_ —his teeth nearly chattering as he remembers with a start that Martin said he would come. Should have been here already.

_Martin._

Slipping out a shivering arm from the covers, Jon reaches for his phone, which lies on the coffee table near his still-full glass of water…and the meds he had neglected to take before passing out.

_Ah._

_Explains some things._

The light from his phone pounds through his skull as he unlocks it, certain that Martin is probably worried sick, has been trying to reach him for hours—

But there is nothing. No one has tried to reach him.

_No one._

Something small and swollen begins to crack in his chest at the thought—of Tim and Martin having clearly gotten coffee without him that morning, perhaps even talked about him behind his back, about how much of a burden he is, how they still can’t stand him, after everything—

_What if he never made it back to the archives?_

That thought alone is enough to force all others aside, in favor of finding out if Martin is in danger, if he’d gotten in an accident, if he’d been attacked.

With shaking fingers, Jon taps out a message.

**Jon:** Are you alright?

He watches the screen desperately for a few moments, heart flooding with relief when it says his message has been read—but no indication of a reply ever comes. One minute, two, three pass by; Jon grows ever more certain that perhaps he had been right all along. Perhaps he didn’t want to come. Perhaps it was all just too much, at last, for Martin to take on.

_I wouldn’t blame him._

**Jon:** You don’t have to stop by.

(Read, 1:17pm)

_…oh._

Furious at the tears that have begun stinging behind his eyes, at the way this makes his nose run again, Jon swipes it all away with his sleeve—tapping out a message to Tim in time with the rain on his window.

**Jon:** Did Martin make it back to the archives?

(Read, 1:20pm)

Everything seeping through the cracks shatters through at once—dams welling and flooding over in the agony of choked-back sobs, the tears still spilling down his face no matter how bitterly he tries to hold them in. _They’re gone, they’re gone, it’s all gone_ —the hollow of his chest ringing out in the echo of his renewed and terrible cough, darkening his vision and forcing him to lie back down again.

Beneath the blanket Martin had knitted for him.

_Martin._

Burying his face beneath it as he begs sleep to take him, he does not see the fog that has slowly begun to creep beneath the door, through his floorboards, through the windows—ready to surround and strike.

He types one last message as the darkness closes in:

**Jon:** I’m sorry. Please do not worry about responding, you are under no obligation. I will be absent again tomorrow. -Jon

(Read, 1:27pm)

—

**_Buzz…buzz…buzz_ **

_It’s not them._

_Just leave it._

_It’s not, and you know it’s not._

Jon lies still with his face buried in his blanket, in _Martin’s_ blanket that he was certainly meant to return all along, the rain now pounding thick and heavy against the window panes. It’s been hours, and yet he has found no rest—as leaden as his limbs may feel, he could never quite bring his eyes to close, feeling almost frozen even with the constant thought of _you need water, you need medicine, you need to see who called._

**_Buzz…buzz…buzz_ **

_Stop it._

_Just let me be._

**_Buzz…buzz…_ **

_Hurts hurts hurts_

**_Buzz…buzz…_ **

_…so cold._

It’s freezing, he’s freezing, more with each passing second.

_Medicine. Need medicine._

Phone still buzzing on the table in front of him, Jon at last lowers the blanket from his face—

And is immediately covered by the tendrils of fog nearly filling up the room.

_No no no no_

Bolting up to sitting, Jon sweeps his gaze around the room, the glint of green he knows must be coming from his eyes reflecting in the swirling mist around him. It pulls at him from every side, snaking around his wrists, his neck, his pounding heart—

_The Lonely._

_It’s the Lonely._

_…the phone the phone the phone_

Every bit of strength Jon has left to his power flows into his arms as they reach for the table, grasping at the ice-cold surface of his phone, the name of the caller just barely visible through the fog—

“ _Martin_ ,” he sobs, holding up the blanket to his face again and trying to feel him there, hoping to god he’ll be able to hear him.

**_“Jon! Thank god, I was getting worried.”_ **

Muffled and static, Jon still collapses inward upon hearing his voice, lowering his head to his knees as the fog begins to retreat.

“Martin,” he says again.

It’s all he can think to say. All that matters, in the end.

**_“Tim assured me you were just sleeping, but I thought no, he might be in trouble, this be an…an entity thing, or something—“_ **

“Martin.”

**_“Wh…are you alri—oh, Jon, please—oh, darling—”_ **

He cannot hold back the sobs now, so relieved is he to know that he had been wrong, he had been so wrong and Martin is here and his voice is so gentle and—

And he loves him.

And it warrants crying over.

**_“I’m—I’m coming over. Stay on the phone with me, okay?”_ **

“Okay,” he chokes, swiping desperately at his eyes, working to take calming breaths before downing his medicine at last.

—

Ten minutes later, a knock on his door.

Leg aching in protest, head spinning slightly, Jon lifts himself from the sofa for the first time that day, limping a bit as he makes his way over to open the door.

“Hey,” Martin says, ever so gentle, ever so kind—and the tears spring back at once, though Jon had just attempted to clean himself up as much as possible.

“Oh _no_ , come here, come here—“ Martin soothes at once, folding him into his chest and shutting the door behind them. “What’s happened? Are you alright?”

And oh, how he wants to tell him, how he wants to explain everything—but all that comes out is a wet sort of laugh, and a nod against the warmth of his chest.

“M’sorry,” Jon whispers after a bit, picking up his head to sniffle and swipe at his dripping nose, grimacing at the marks left on Martin’s shirt. “I’m...this is… _unpleasant_ , I’m sorry—“

“None of that,” Martin murmurs, keeping a warm hand on his back as he steers them both to the couch, reaching over to hand Jon the box of tissues from the far corner of the coffee table on the way.

“None of that, Jon. Tell me what happened.”

—

The rest of the night passes in a bit of a blur—though the fog had receded, it had not left completely, and Jon’s mind was still well-enough addled with fever to make it all feel rather like a dream. When he thinks back to this moment, even years afterwards, most of what he remembers is just a feeling of warmth, so wonderful and so overpowering, wrapped up in all the quiet strength that Martin brings to everything he does. Martin never loves by halves—though Jon had never allowed himself to call it that, not before.

He only wishes he had seen it sooner.

When he wakes up, tucked carefully into his bed the next morning, it’s with a feeling of such safety and comfort that he could lie there for hours. Such a rarity is this moment for him—of peace, of quiet, of looking out the window and into the light of a beautiful autumn day, knowing that Martin—

_…Martin slept on the sofa._

Chest jolting at the realization, Jon sits up in bed at once, listening carefully for any sign that he might still be there. He needn’t have bothered—for a few moments into his observance, a hastily muffled sniffle comes from beyond the door, followed quickly by a few short coughs.

_I’ve gotten him ill,_ Jon realizes with horror, throwing off the covers at once—wincing at the shock of cold floor against his bare feet—and makes his way carefully out to the living room.

The sight that greets him sends waves of guilt over him, as he surveys Martin: curled up on the couch beneath his own stitchwork, tissue pressed to his face, hair mussed and breathing heavy. 

“I’m so sorry,” he gasps, hand pressed over his mouth as Martin jumps at the sound, turning to face him at once. “You’re—you’re ill, I’m sorry.”

“Oh no, it’s—“ he breaks off to sniff again, smiling against puffy eyes. “It’s not a big deal, really. I feel alright.”

“Rubbish,” Jon says at once, padding to the kitchen with still-uneven gait to turn the kettle on. “I’m making you tea. As an apology.”

“You don’t need to do that,” Martin laughs, walking over to join him, reaching over at once to collect mugs and tea from the cabinet above. “It’s kind of my thing, you know.”

“I—I know. But…please, let me. This time.”

They’re standing so close, now—Martin trying to elbow Jon out of the way, Jon pushing back against his shoulders—

He doesn’t want to take his hands away.

And Martin is not asking. 

Just looking at him. Golden threads laced about him in the sun.

Jon finds them all pooling into his stomach, everything about it so _warm warm warm—_ and it’s finally enough. 

It’s enough for him to let go.

“Martin,” he murmurs, slowly letting his hands fall from his shoulders to behind his elbows, never breaking contact—couldn’t if he tried.

“Oh,” Martin whispers, eyes blown wide, a blush creeping up and up and up his neck and painting his cheeks just that perfect, lovely shade of pink. 

“ _Oh_.”

_I love you I love you I love you_

“Martin, I—“ he chokes—and _god_ , he’s terrible at this, at saying what he means, what he feels, what he _loves_ —

“Jon,” Martin hums lowly, hands coming cautiously to rest against his upper arms, stepping just a bit closer, just a centimeter—and it’s enough to set Jon’s heart pounding again, as he feels the heat beginning to creep over his own cheeks. “Do y-…are you—“

“Yes,” he breathes at once—perhaps, just perhaps, allowing himself to hope. “Do you—“

“Always,” he says in a rush, voice little but a tremor. “Always, Jon.”

_Martin Martin Martin Martin_

“Please,” Jon whispers, reaching up to place a hand on his beautiful face, desperate that what he wants is allowed, that love is something that could be meant even for him.

“—please kiss m— _mmm_.”

As it turns out, it just might be, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading!! you can find me @celosiaa on tumblr and Taylor @taylortut on tumblr as well :) have a great day!


	8. The Slaughter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Slaughter: the fear of violence, and, more relevantly, the fear of unrelenting pain coming at unpredictable moments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's another fear that's deeply personal to me, boys!! god i'm so sorry this took forever!! pls forgive meeee

Tim can’t say he didn’t see it coming. 

He’s known Jon for a long time, and though it’s never specifically come up, he’s always had the impression that Jon wasn’t straight. Martin, he knew for a fact: they’d talked several times about bad dates and funny coming out experiences and, of course, there was the time they both realized that they’d matched on Grindr a few months before Martin had started working at the Institute. With Jon, though, it was always more subtle. He never talked about relationships, not really. He had an ex-girlfriend with whom he was on good terms, Tim knew, but really, on the rare occasions he even mentioned her, he usually only talked about her cat. 

That’s why, when he’d learned that Martin was out with the same cold that had sent Jon home a few days before, he’d had his suspicions. 

Jon had kept in touch better than he’d come to expect from him. Luckily, without the added bonus of the Spooks, Martin’s go of things had been easier: a mild virus, irritating but not as traumatizing as Jon’s had been. He’d been well enough to take care of Jon, apparently, until his fever broke, never actually spiking a temperature over 37.5 °C himself, never completely losing his voice, even if it did turn rough around the edges. The texts were slightly erratic, sure, but Jon always seemed to be waking up just as he sent them, so Tim was able to forgive the spotty communication if it meant Jon was actually getting some rest. 

Suspicion turned into assumptions when, every time he asked to come visit and help out, Martin sent a too-eager refusal, citing over and over that there was no reason for all of them to get sick. 

Hence, it didn’t surprise him when, on the day they both returned to the Institute (he’d taken some time off, as well, but found that he wasn’t able to go far without feeling lost), they pulled up in the same car. 

Quickly, he weighs his options. He could play dumb, act like he hadn’t even considered the possibility and that this was a shock, but he isn’t quite sure he’s got the acting chops for that kind of deception. He rub the “I knew it” in their faces, but he’s not sure they’ll believe him. 

In the end, he decides to gaslight the both of them, just a little, as a treat. 

“Morning, Boss,” he greets casually as Jon unlocks the Institute door with Martin trailing behind him, holding his hand. “Martin. Feeling better?” 

They nod. “I was never that sick to begin with,” Martin explains, “and Jon’s fever has been broken for over 24 hours, so I think it’s safe for us to return.” 

Tim nods, hardly sparing a glance at their intertwined fingers. Just as he’d hoped, they stop when they get to his desk. 

“I imagine you’ve got some comments,” Jon says exasperatedly, “so, let’s hear them.” 

Oh, he does. But he’s hoping this will be worth it, anyway. “Comments? About what?” 

Jon hesitates, then lifts Martin’s hand still tethered to his own. “Uh. This, I suppose?” 

He quirks one eyebrow and tilts his head to the side. “What about it?” 

“I’m, erm. I’m holding Martin’s hand.” 

“Yes? And?” He reaches out halfway, looking eager and feral. “Do you want me to hold the other or something?” 

“Hardly,” Jon mutters, and the look on his face—Tim almost drops the whole charade then and there. “We’ve started, um. Well, you hardly need the details. But Martin and I have started seeing one another.” He pauses when Tim forces his face steely and blank. “Romantically.” 

He nods as if that’s obvious. “You two weren’t already dating?” he asks, and something in his face must give it away, because Martin rolls his eyes. 

“Oh, shove off, Tim,” he laughs. “That’s not going to work.” 

Right. Should have seen that one coming, since Martin has been venting for months about his unreciprocated crush. When they announce their engagement, Tim will have to think of something more believable. 

“Fine, you caught me,” he concedes. “I’m happy for you both! This is great. No more spending Christmas at mom’s and New Year’s at dad’s. The family is finally together. I call being best man for one of you; I don’t care who. Possibly both! Actually, scratch that. Is there a worst man? Bastard of honor? That’s what I want.”

“At least he recognizes it,” Jon mumbles under his breath, and Martin giggles. 

“Really, though,” he decides to finally cave, “I’m glad you’re both happy. You deserve each other!” 

Months ago, that wouldn’t have been a compliment, not toward either of them. Things are different, now. The three of them are different. 

“We appreciate that,” Jon says, plowing through the pleasant conversation like usual because there is something else on his mind. “Now, let’s get back to work.”

It’s been so long since they’ve actually had a break in Jon’s consistent crises, it almost feels like starting from scratch, searching through the Institute for any sign of Elias. What few rooms they’d already picked apart now feel untouched, and they find themselves retracing steps they’ve already made, re-sorting drawers they’d already emptied, going through the same offices again and again. 

When only two rooms remain, Martin opts for tearing apart Elias’ office, leaving Jon and Tim together in artifacts storage. Donning nitrile gloves, a few weapons, and a fire extinguisher, the pair of them carefully sift through anything they can get their hands on without risking setting loose unspeakable horrors. It’s quiet work, for the most part, and more mundane than Tim might have thought a treasure trove of cursed objects might be, almost boring. 

He’s trying desperately to think of a one-liner about one of the artifacts to get the ball rolling when Jon shuffles conspicuously up next to him. 

“Hey, Tim,” Jon begins, looking… well, if Tim is being blunt, Jon looks petrified, somewhere between embarrassed and scared. “I was wondering if I could ask you something. Not as your boss. Or, coworker, or. You know. Not in a professional context.” 

Tim grins, a mischievous edge to it that he knows Jon hates. “Ooh, I think I know what this is about,” he begins, “and the answer is yes. Always.” 

“I… highly doubt you do,” he replies. “It’s about Martin.” 

Tim rolls his eyes. “And here I was, supposing you were going to ask after Queen Elizabeth II.” 

“Just let me get through this,” Jon says exasperatedly, “and then you can make all the jokes you want, alright?” 

Tim blinks. “Okay,” he replies. “Sure. Tell me what’s on your mind, Boss.” 

Jon practically winces, then he does wince, one hand absently moving to his stomach with a sour expression. Tim frowns. 

“Alright?” he asks. “Does your stomach hurt?” 

Jon shakes off the concern like water off a duck’s back. “Fine, fine. Just a bit of a cramp. Been bothering me all day.” 

“You’re sure it’s not—” 

“It’s not,” Jon curtails before Tim can even put the thought into the universe. After a long, steadying breath, Jon continues. “Anyway. I, uh, suppose I wanted to ask you because you’ve. You’ve dated before, yes?” 

Tim nods slowly. “Yes,” he replies. “But I’m hardly an expert.” 

“And I don’t need expert advice!” he’s quick to reassure. “I just need… I’m not sure.” 

“Reassurance?” Tim tries, and Jon hesitates. 

“There are… certain things, I suppose, expected of two people who have just entered into a relationship like the one Martin and I have. Certain acts. Do you… know what I mean?”

“I’m familiar with the concept, yes.” 

“Right. Of course. Anyway, I don’t know if Martin has… you know… done those things with another person. And I don’t want to know! Not from you, at least. That’s not what I’m asking.” 

Tim is quiet and patient while he waits for Jon to gather his courage. However, after a long moment, he still hasn’t found his tongue, and Tim decides to nudge him in the right direction for fear that he’ll otherwise bail on the conversation altogether. 

“Have  _ you _ not done them before?” he asks calmly, and Jon doesn’t look him in the eyes. 

“I have,” he admits. “With, erm, a few--that’s. You don’t need the details. Sorry.” 

“It’s hardly sordid secrets,” Tim comforts. “I’ve had sex. With men, women, nonbinary people. I like sex. Talking about it generally is just like bringing up any other hobby.”

“The problem,” Jon says, because apparently they’re talking about a problem, “is that I don’t… I don’t like sex. I’ve, erm. Tried to? To like it. A few different ways. But I just. Don’t.” 

Tim laughs. “Is that all!” he exclaims. “Well. I might not be an expert, but it’s not like it’s an alien concept to me. Will you spontaneously combust if I ask you a few questions?” 

“Depends on the questions.” 

“A risk I’m willing to take,” he continues. “Well. First of all, I guess, do you  _ want _ sex?” 

Jon cocks his head to the side like a confused puppy. “Why would I want to do something I don’t like?” 

“Not like that,” Tim admonishes. “I mean, do you see an attractive person and you think, ‘damn, I want them?’ Does your body want sex?”

Jon thinks for a moment. “I suppose I don’t,” he admits. “I mean, I find Martin attractive. Aesthetically speaking.” 

“But you don’t want to get it on with him.”

Cringing at the wording, Jon shakes his head. “I suppose not.” 

“Okay. Well, I think I understand the situation, but you’ll forgive me if I can’t quite find the question in there.” 

A long moment passes, and Tim is patient. “I, erm, suppose,” Jon begins, “I want to know if… being, erm, the way I am, is going to be a deal-breaker for him.”

Tim can’t help but laugh, because it’s so ridiculous, the thought of Martin, Martin who’d spent over a year intoxicated by every small touch Jon gave when he was in a particularly good mood, who had fallen in love with Jon’s conversations alone, who would sooner walk across hot coals than allow anyone to do something that made them uncomfortable. 

“Boss,” he says, “it’s Martin. And it’s you. I’m not sure there are deal-breakers, here.” 

Though he rolls his eyes, Jon smiles, face flushing ever so slightly darker. “Well. I don’t know about that,” he argues lightly, “but I… do feel better. About having the conversation with him, anyway. Still not sure how he’ll take it, but I appreciate this. It’s been reassuring.” 

Tim grins. “Hey, that’s what I’m here for!” 

Now that the awkward conversation is out of the way, Jon is ready to throw in the towel here and admit they’ve hit another dead end. “Perhaps we should go see if Martin’s had any better luck in Elias’ office,” he suggests. When he stands from his crouched position, he gasps, bending double before straightening out more slowly, and Tim’s heart skips a beat. 

“I’m fine; I’m fine,” he brushes off his worried hands. 

“What was that?” Tim asks, even as Jon pushes out of the room. He’s upright, now, but there’s tension in it, like a rubber band pulled taut. 

“I told you--it’s just a cramp.” 

“But that looked like it really hurt,” Tim argues. “A cramp is something you stretch out and go about your day. Does it still hurt?” 

“I simply moved too fast,” Jon dodges. So, that’s a yes. 

“You said it’s been all day? Is it getting any better?” 

Jon sighs, an exasperated sound that makes Tim feel a resurgence of the same anger he’d felt when Jon had been hiding so much from them. He tries to remind himself that there’s a middle ground between total paranoia and total transparency, and that Jon is allowed boundaries, things which are not Tim’s business simply because he wants to know them. 

God. Things were so much simpler before. 

“I would tell you if I thought it was… something,” he says, and that has to be enough for Tim. “It’s just a stomachache. Used to get them all the time from stress. Remember, when I was first promoted?” 

A true rarity, a smile spurred by a thought of one of their times spent here, spreads across Tim’s face. 

“Oh, yeah,” he chuckles, “I do, actually.” What Tim does not say is that those didn’t ever leave him sweating just from the effort of standing, curled over himself like a dying meal worm. He rests a hand on Jon’s shoulder. At least he has Martin, now, to confide in, if he feels he can't talk to Tim. “Just… let us know if it doesn’t go away, alright?” 

Jon nods. “Of course.” 

Martin does not have better luck in Elias’ office, but he does suggest one final idea, and as much as Jon and Tim both hate it, they have to face that they’re out of options, at this point, and that can mean only one thing: the tunnels below the Institute. 

So, in spite of the dread, they begin to prepare. That afternoon, it almost feels like old times, as the three of them sift through the stacks in desperate hope of finding anything that might give them an edge, or at least a chance. 

Tim decides he likes listening to Martin and Jon chat with one another. The playful bickering, hearing Martin’s voice sound lighter than it has in a long time and seeing Jon genuinely smiling more than he’s ever seen him do: it’s nice. It feels healthy, normal in the midst of the chaos. 

And it’s precisely this feeling of positivity that has him noticing things that are even just ever so slightly off. Like pins in a pincushion, small, sharp worries begin to nag at him. 

It starts when he notices Jon removing the tea bag from the hot cup that Martin sets in front of him after having given it only a few seconds to steep. The water is still almost clear, and Jon tries to hide the odd happening from Martin behind his hand, but it doesn’t slip past Tim. 

He lets it slide without a word. Tim can only imagine Jon’s been having trouble sleeping, so perhaps he’s trying to reduce his caffeine intake later in the day and Martin forgot. Plausible, and only unlikely because it’s Jon, and the “plausible” theory is usually the least likely one when it comes to Jon. 

He notices it again when Jon hardly picks at his lunch, spreading the more of the takeaway bistro sandwich around his plate than he eats. But Tim tries not to read too much into that, if only because Martin is here, and if there were something to be worried about, Martin would already be worrying about it. 

So, he ignores when Jon begins to slow his pace, convinces himself that the slightly-hunched way he’s standing when he thinks no one is looking is all in his own head. 

They work well into the evening. Martin has given Jon his cardigan, which he’s still wearing when he looks up suddenly at the clock and scowls. 

“It’s that late already?” he asks no one in particular. “How did the whole day get away from us?” 

Martin laughs lightly, pulling Jon closer. “You’ve been focused,” he supplies. Jon seems more than tired—he seems downright strung out. “Maybe we should call it a night?”

Tim nods in agreement. “Martin’s right,” he concurs. “We’ll need a proper night’s rest if we’re planning on going down into the tunnels tomorrow.”

Jon’s weak and brief protests seem more for show, as he gives up without much of a fight. 

“Alright. If you both insist. You’ve got a point, in any case. Let me just go get my coat.” 

Jon has been finding it more difficult by the hour to stand up straight because of the pain, and although he knows it will certainly hurt Martin’s feelings, he stands awkwardly in front of the door to his flat. 

“Thank you for the ride,” he says, hoping that will get the message across. Martin is so blindsided by the lack of invitation inside that he seems to have to readjust his whole trajectory. 

“Oh, you--you don’t--sure, Jon,” he forces a smile. “No problem.”

“I would invite you in,” Jon tries to defend, “but, you know. Since we’ve got such a big day tomorrow, I think we should probably make sure we both get some sleep.”

“Of course,” Martin says. His tone is cheerful, but there’s a fogginess to it, and he almost expects to see the words ride on a cloud of mist. “You’re right.” 

Jon squeezes his hand comfortingly. He’s running out of time on his feet. “Another time.” 

The promise is real but not comforting. “Do try to get some real sleep, alright?” Martin bargains. “You look tired.” 

“I am,” he admits. That’s not a lie, either. “You, too.” 

He makes sure to kiss Martin for an extra few seconds before watching him leave and stepping inside his flat, where he doesn’t even change into his pyjamas before collapsing into bed. 

The pain is too intense to fall asleep, so Jon supposes that when he wakes up around 12:00 a.m., it's because he'd passed out from some combination of pain, fever, and dehydration. Though he's not sure what specifically had knocked him out, he's certain what wakes him up: nausea, hot and urgent, wrapping around his throat. He bolts up in bed and stumbles to the bathroom, where he loses the cup of tea he'd had instead of dinner. There is simply no describing the intensity of the pain that shoots through his abdomen when the muscles there contract around whatever is going on inside. 

He should call Martin. He knows that. But he feels like he might get sick again, and he doesn't quite want Martin here to witness that, not just yet, so instead, he forces himself to his feet, only able to stand if he's bent double, and go back to his room. He grabs his cup of water and his phone from the nightstand, then tugs the comforter off the bed before crashing hard back down onto the bathroom floor. 

About half an hour later, he loses the water. Tries to drink more to replace it, but he throws that up, too. This cycle repeats in hazy succession until around 2:00, when the pain is so incredible that he can't do anything but call Martin and hope his phone is on. 

It only takes two rings. 

"H'llo?" Martin slurs, obviously having just woken up. 

"Martin," Jon gasps. It's all he can say. He's not sure he has the wherewithal to explain anything further. 

Immediately, Martin is awake. "What's wrong?" he demands. Jon gasps again. 

"My--stomach," he manages to groan. "Hurts." 

It feels so childish, the complaint, and he's just beginning to regret even having bothered Martin about this at all when another stab of white-hot agony rips through him and a strangled whimper escapes without his permission. He regrets not having brought it up earlier, because now Martin is in the dark and he CANNOT handle it alone anymore. It had. It had just felt so personal, like so much complaining to drop onto him in a relationship that had only so recently taken a step towards intimacy. Jon is always making the wrong choices. 

"Oh, Jesus," Martin panics. "Okay. I'm coming over, alright? I'll call Tim and see if he picks up--I'm 25 minutes away, but Tim is only 10, with his car. I'll call you as soon as I'm on the tube, alright? To let you know what's happening." 

Jon nods, noticing distantly but not caring that Martin can't see him. Everything is cold and hazy and too fast, and he's afraid that if he gives too much of his focus to anything other than waiting out the next wave of pain, that it might take him out rather than wash over him.

"Keep your phone close by. If you don't answer when I call back, I'm calling an ambulance. Can you wait 15 minutes?" 

Jon grunts an affirmative reply, and it seems to be enough for Martin, because he says goodbye and hangs up. 

The pain tears him in half again, and he counts slowly to ten. He can last ten seconds. If he gets through ten seconds, he can get through another ten seconds, and another after that, but those seconds don’t matter right now: he only thinks about the one he’s in. It’s something Martin taught him for anxiety when the panic attacks were so bad, and it works the same for pain, he supposes. Against his own body, there is no fight; there is no flight: there is only freeze, and the best thing he can do for it is to remind himself that it has an end. 

Only a few minutes later, the sound of the phone ringing startles him awake again. Jon only lets it ring once, desperate to hear Martin's voice again. 

"Jon," he sighs, sounding relieved. "Got a hold of Tim. He'll be there in 15. Can you last that long?" 

Jon isn't completely sure, if he's being honest, but he really doesn't want to be in an ambulance. Besides, he's not sure that he can get up to answer the door right now. Tim has a key, but the paramedics would have to break down the door, and that sounds like a major hassle. 

"Yes," he replies. "If you--"

He cuts himself off. It's not fair to make demands, ultimatums, with Martin. He has no right to do that. 

"If I what, Jon?" 

He takes a shuddering breath and the weakness overcomes him. "Was... gonna ask you to stay on the phone with me," he admits. Another violent stab of pain that has him thrusting down the phone and retching into the toilet again. When he picks it up once more, he's a sniffling mess, and Martin is still there. 

"Jon?" he calls, sounding like he's been doing so for a while, now. "Are you there?" 

"Yes," he whispers. "Sorry." 

"Don't apologize," Martin scolds. "We're on our way, alright? Tim's got your key, so just stay where you are. You're going to be alright. Will you keep talking to me in the meantime?" 

Jon hesitates. "I... could you... talk to me instead?" 

"Why? I mean, of course I will, but--you're--I mean, I'd like to know you're still awake from time to time." 

Jon hums an affirmative. Later, he decides, he'll explain why he doesn't have the energy to talk, or even to listen, really, but that Martin's voice makes him feel calmer. For now, that's too much, and he counts himself the luckiest man in the world when Martin begins rambling to him about the latest poetry reading he'd attended.

Tim doesn't knock before he enters the flat, or, if he does, Jon doesn't hear it. Either is equally likely, considering he's certainly drifting in and out listening to Martin talk, his voice and the train sounds around it acting as soothing white noise. 

"Jon," he announces himself from the living room, "I'm here; where are you?” 

Jon latches onto his voice but doesn’t quite know what to make of it. 

“Jon?” Martin calls, which does a much better job of getting his attention.

“Hm?”

“I think I hear Tim in the background. Is he there?” 

“Mhm.” 

“Jon!” Tim calls. He realizes he’d closed the bathroom door, locked it instinctively before he’d called Martin. Tim is knocking on it. 

“Oh, good. Thank God. I’m still ten minutes away. Can you answer him?” 

“Jon, you need to open the door,” Tim calls. “Otherwise, I’m going to have to break it down, and you’ll be mad at me for that, later.” 

“I’m,” he hesitates. “Dunno if. If I can move.”

“The pain is that bad?” Martin asks, and Jon nods, breathes out a shaky sigh. “Christ. Okay. You have to open the door.” 

Jon shuts his eyes hard. “Jus’ told you…” 

“I know,” Martin says, empathy clear in his voice, “but I’m telling you that you have to. For me. Please.” 

Jon tears up just thinking about it, partially from the pain and partially from the fever. The cold, the dizziness, the fear of the next spike of pain overtaking him. “Martin…” 

“No. Jon.” His tone is firm, not leaving any room for arguments, the kind of certainly Martin has been finding more and more often lately. “Get up. After that, we’ll handle everything and you won’t have to think about anything else.” 

He can hear the sound of Martin tapping at his phone, likely communicating with Tim and probably the only reason that he hasn’t broken the door down yet, loud and annoying in his ear.

“Promise?” It would be teasing if the pain weren’t flaring again, sucking the mirth from his voice. 

“Jon, open up!” Tim calls again, and Martin is murmuring something comforting in his ear, and when the pain spikes once more, he uses his last moment of fading energy to thrust himself upward into the door, where he unlocks it before sliding into the frame limply. 

Tim is quick to throw open the door as soon as he hears Jon finish fumbling with it, and he’s not at all surprised, though he’s absolutely alarmed and horrified, when the first thing he has to do is catch Jon before he can fall and slam his head against the side of the bathtub. 

Jon cries out in pain at the jostling, a guttural and choked sound that he never wants to hear again, and tries to fold double but Tim doesn’t let him. Instead, he assists him into a seated position, slowly and gently. 

“Oh, Christ,” Tim mutters. His hand rests on Jon’s forehead, cursing again. “Fuck, Jon. Fuck. Is it your stomach?” Jon nods. He’s sweaty and clammy, but at the same time, he can’t help but lean into Tim’s warm touch, hoping it will smooth the chill bumps that are angrily prickling at his skin. “Can you show me exactly where?” 

Jon shakes his head, buries his forehead in Tim’s shoulder, and wishes he’d just answered the question, because when he doesn’t reply verbally, Tim starts prodding. Without warning, his hands press upon a spot in his lower right abdomen that makes him wince in increased pain, and when Tim lets go, his stomach turns molten, and he lets out a strangled cry which fades as everything turns black. 

When he comes to, Tim is on his phone, shouting with Martin. 

“--got to be his appendix, or something,” Tim is saying. “He’s on fire, and in so much pain, and--oh, shit, he’s waking up.” 

“Nngh,” Jon groans. He wishes Tim hadn’t noticed. 

“Jon, I have some really important questions for you, okay? And I need you to focus to answer them. Open your eyes.” Jon hadn’t realized they were closed. “There; good.” Tim is supporting his chin with his hand so he can direct all his energy into thinking. “When did you notice the pain start?” 

Jon frowns. When DID he notice the pain? It seems like he’s always in some pain or another, these days, and it’s difficult to remember. 

No, he does remember. Martin had been the one to point it out, that he’d chosen to drink a cup of water rather than the black tea he usually started the morning with, and though he hadn’t said anything, it had been because he was afraid the caffeine might upset his stomach, which had been slightly aching. 

“Morning before yesterday.” He hadn’t been aware that there could be wrong answers in this quiz, but Tim doesn’t seem to like that one. “Didn’t get bad ‘til this evening,” he defends weakly. It doesn’t seem to help.

“Right. Have you been able to hold down water?” 

Sheepishly, Jon shakes his head. “Not since midnight.” 

Jon vaguely remembers that Tim had told him he’d had his appendix out in his senior year of high school, during some ill-advised conversation about their scars a few months back. Jon had so many already. He didn’t like to think about the idea of another, but if it meant getting whatever it was that was burning a hole through his side out, he would endure it. 

“S’Martin coming?” he asks, and he doesn’t mean to seem so pathetic. 

“Of course,” Tim replies like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Perhaps it is; he’s not sure. He’s rather feverish.

“He just stepped off the tube. He’ll be here in a few minutes, and we’re going straight to the hospital. They’ll get you the good drugs, get you out of pain.” 

Jon nods. Pain slices him. He scrambles to sit up but can’t flex the muscles at all, so Tim helps, tipping him forward, and he distantly recognizes he’d been lying against him. 

As he dry heaves again, still having nothing to lose, he feels guilty. Guilty for putting Tim through this so late at night, guilty for letting it get this bad, guilty for not telling Martin. He can almost see him in his mind’s Eye, standing on the tube, practically vibrating with anxiety, pacing from the front to the back of the car at each stop because it at least makes him feel as though he’s still moving forward. 

Tim talks gently to him, and if pressed, he’ll blame the fever rather than his own spiraling thoughts for the fact that he does not reply. 

Jon must drift in and out of consciousness another several times until Martin arrives. Tim had left the door open so he doesn’t have to leave, which is good, because Jon isn’t sure what his mind will do with all this pain if he’s left to bear it alone for even another moment. Martin’s presence, crouching to his knees beside him, caressing his face lovingly even though Jon knows he’s filthy from sweat and probably tears: it’s a distraction, and for a moment, the warmth manages to squeeze in through small cracks around the agony. 

“Jon,” he says, and Jon can hear the tears he’s holding back. The thought of Martin feeling he has to hide his emotions gives him a taste of his own bitter medicine. “Hi.” 

“I’m sorry,” Jon says, because Martin deserves that, but in the moment, he doesn’t realize how it comes across. And Martin looks horrified. 

“Don’t you dare even start that,” Martin scolds, pity not dulling the harshness. “You’re not going to die, Jon; God, you’re so dramatic!” 

Jon almost laughs, almost. “Not--ah, ah,” he cuts himself off with a wince and shuddering breath, which extinguishes the flame of Martin’s annoyance immediately. 

“Just breathe through it,” Tim encourages, rubbing soft circles in his back. It’s a lot of stimulus on fever-sensitive skin and he takes it out on the bones of Martin’s now slightly-crushed hand. Martin has the decency not to complain. 

“I just meant,” he continues, trying hard to force the words out in the brief reprieve, “sorry for. For not telling you.” 

Martin sighs. “You called when you knew you couldn’t handle it on your own anymore,” he gives him partial credit. “That’s not nothing.” 

In lieu of arguing, Jon allows Tim to take control of the conversation, and he feels so safe and exhausted in equal measure that he can’t help but fade out once more. 

The hospital is a blur, too, of doctors and nurses and tests and, finally, pain medication. 

And the next time he wakes up, he’s in a lot less pain. The room is dimly lit and he’s still fuzzy from what he imagines are some strong drugs, but he can see Tim, asleep in a chair in the corner of the room. Martin is sleeping, too, his head resting on the corner of Jon’s bed, hand holding the one of Jon’s which doesn’t have an IV in. Jon strokes his hair to wake him. 

“Hm,” Martin murmurs, coming awake gently and more pleasantly than Jon would have assumed. Must’ve just fallen asleep recently, then, if the comfort of having his hair petted outweighs the crick in his neck from sleeping like that. It only takes a second for him to recognize his surroundings. “Jon!” he exclaims, trying to be quiet but too excited not to wake Tim. “You’re awake!” 

He nods. 

“How do you feel?” Tim asks. 

“Uh,” Jon struggles. “Tired, I guess. But better, much better. No more searing pain.” 

“Thank god for that,” Martin breathes. “Your appendix almost burst. The doctors said it was really close.” 

“That… makes sense,” he admits. “They took it out, I assume?” 

Tim grins. “Another scar for the collection.” 

Jon grimaces. “Hm.”

“Did you, erm,” Martin tries. “Did you know?” 

Jon shakes his head vehemently and honestly. “Of course not. I would have told you.” 

Martin nods, but doesn’t look convinced. “It’s just,” he argues, “Tim seemed to know what was wrong more than I did. And you asked me not to stay the night. So, it just feels, feels sort of like you didn’t… want me there? Want me involved?” Jon doesn’t yet have the words to explain himself. “Which is, is fine,” Martin lies. “I mean, you don’t have to tell me everything. You’re allowed secrets. Just. This is important? And I would have liked to know.” 

“I should have mentioned something to you sooner,” he admits, “but I had no idea it would turn into this. Really. I thought I was just… overwhelmed, I suppose. So much is going on.” 

“I understand that,” Martin tries, “I do. But--forgive me for just asking point-blank, but why did you not tell me?” 

The ideas come out unfiltered before the words are perfect. “I needed to make sure it was really worth complaining about before I made you worry about me again.” 

Tim, bless his heart, steps out to tell a nurse Jon is awake and get him some ice chips. Martin gets no such luxury. 

“Jon,” Martin smiles, but there’s pain there. “I’m--I care about you. Your pain, or anxiety, or, whatever--however frequent, doesn’t need to be a matter of life or death for you to tell me.”

“I just hate to see you stressed out about me,” Jon admits. 

“But you, you see how this makes that worse, right? When I don’t know whether you’d tell me if something were wrong? God, Jon, I already have nightmares about missing a phone call in the middle of the night, and here you go, nearly dying at 2:00 a.m., and you literally kicked me out of bed.” 

Jon’s face falls. “I hadn’t meant—” 

“Of course you didn’t,” Martin soothes. “But it happened. And if I need to work on stressing out about you less, then I will try, for both of our sakes. But we have to meet halfway.”

Now reaching the end of the burst of energy he’d had, Jon is feeling the painkillers taking him under again. He squeezes Martin’s hand, and Martin squeezes back.

“Halfway,” Jon agrees. “I can do that.” 

The last thought Jon has before falling asleep once more is of the tunnels beneath the Institute. 


	9. The Hunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hunt: one of the most primal powers. The animalistic and instinctual fear of being hunted or chased, of becoming prey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so!!!!! it has been five months!! what's up how we doin how we feelin
> 
> really, I apologize for the wait and appreciate your patience. I hope you all will enjoy this chapter, and keep sticking around <3
> 
> CW hallucinations, unreality, panic attacks, paranoia

“You sure about this?”

Standing as they are, perched at the entrance to the tunnels, Jon can already feel his hackles rising at Martin’s never-ceasing worry, his all-encompassing nagging that would have him lying down and resting for the remainder of his days on this planet. And now Tim’s eyes are on him too, damn it—searching for whatever imagined bit of weakness Martin had seen to prod his question.

_Damn it all, Martin._

“Absolutely,” he replies at once, letting the acridity of years past slip into his tone.

Even so, Tim and Martin have seen enough not to cower at his sour temper anymore—instead, exchanging worried glances between them, Martin biting at his lower lip in _entirely misplaced_ concern.

“I’m _fine,”_ he spits bitterly. “And I would very much like to get on with this, if you’re both quite finished gawking at me.”

“Jon, we’re not—“

“Then what would you call this, _Martin?”_

There—there’s the reaction he’d been looking for, just the slightest bit of a flinch, something to show him that his words still have power. Just a bit of hurt in Martin’s dark eyes, perhaps even a bit of shock.

It hurts quite a bit more than he’d expected.

“Alright, why don’t you just cool it, Jon?” Tim demands at once, eyes flaring in the way that tells Jon he’s trying quite hard not to shout. “Let’s just go and get this overwith. Martin—come on.”

“Right…right,” he mutters, lowering his gaze at last from Jon’s in favor of exhaling a long breath, straightening his shoulders even as Jon drops his own in guilt.

_Lashing out, you’re lashing out again—_

“Coming?”

He supposes he must, even if he finds himself still seething every time he so much as glances at Martin’s retreating back, already moving down the tunnels and away from him. Away from him. _Away from him._

_…why does it hurt so much?_

With a sigh, Jon powers on his own torch, keeps his eyes to the ground, and loses himself in silence and memory.

—

—

“There you are, love. Nice and comfy?”

For what must be the seventh time, Martin reaches behind Jon to adjust the pillows, making sure they lie _just so_ beneath his head. So much fussing, it would ordinarily irk Jon to bits, but today— _tonight? How long was I at the hospital?_ —he is far, far too tired to do anything but let him.

And in pain. Not that Martin needed to know that.

“Mmm…fine, Martin,” he mumbles, eyes already drooping closed as he feels a warm hand come to rest on his arm. “S’perfect.”

“Alright,” he whispers, stroking a hand slowly up and down his arm. “Is there anything I can get you? Water? Meds?”

_Meds._

_Need meds._

But he cannot say it for anything, not when he knows it will set Martin alight with anxiety already threatening to bubble over. Even if well-hidden, nervous energy practically oozes from him—down to the ever-so-slight trembling of the hand covering his own.

“M’fine,” he assures, offering what he hopes turns out to be a smile. “Sleep.”

A small laugh—good, that’s good, he’s relaxed a bit. Perhaps.

“Okay. Well if you need anything, just shout, alright?”

_Shout?_

Lifting his iron-laden eyelids as much as he can bear, Jon tries to get a good look at his face. Surely he was coming to bed, right? He had apologized, they had worked it out, Martin was still with him—right?

“Where?” he hisses, setting a hand over the pain of his incision, set alight by the anxious clenching of his stomach. “ _Ah_ — _hah_ —wh-where—are you going?”

“Hush, Jon—let me get you some pain meds, alright? You haven’t taken them in a while.”

“Where, Martin?” he insists, has to know, _what has he done?_ “I-I thought—”

“I’m not going anywhere, darling. Just breathe for me, alright? You’re alright.”

_Breathe._

_Breathe._

_Not leaving he’s not leaving_

“Good, Jon, there you are. You’re alright, love.”

Gentle, so gentle, the warmth in his voice. Gentle the hand that guides his own to hold the glass of water, to tip it back, to encourage him to drink down the promise of relief for the ever-increasing roar of his stomach. Lulling him back to rest.

“Sleep well, Jon. I’m sleeping on the couch while you heal, so just shout if you need me, okay?”

_Alone?_

_No no he can’t be alone he can’t—_

Dragging his eyes open against everything threatening to pull him back under, he swears he can see the fog swirling around his ankles, reaching up and up and all through the room, choking, drowning—

Or is it a trick of the light?

“N-no, Martin, you—you can’t—”

“Can’t what, love?” he says, stepping lightly back toward him, the warm and gentle hand back on his shoulder. Where it belongs.

“The couch, you…you don’t need to. Please, I’ll be fine.”

Because he will be, of course he will. Has to be.

“You need to heal, darling,” he soothes, kneeling down to meet his eyes. “Just for a bit, I promise. You’re alright.”

“Are _you?”_

A smirk, a soft bit of laughter—what was so funny? That he could wake up and Martin could be smothered, stolen away by the fog, nothing left of him to mourn.

“I’m just fine, Jon. I promise,” he assures, brushing away a stray strand of hair that’s fallen over his eyes, as if it might break in his hands. “All you need to worry about is getting well. Okay?”

_Too good._

_Too good too good he’s too good for me_

“Okay,” he whispers instead of these thoughts, can’t keep his eyes open a second more.

“Okay.”

A kiss pressed against his forehead. Spreading warmth all through him.

“Get some sleep. I’ll be here when you wake.”

—

“You’ve got to get up and move a little bit Jon, it will do you good.”

The speed at which Jon’s anger rises against the repeated pestering matches the piercing pain in his side, nearly unbearable today, even with taking his pain meds religiously. There is absolutely no way he can move—of course Martin would never understand that. How could he, when the worst he’d experienced this year was a goddamn _cold?_

“You need to keep your body moving a little so you won’t lose muscle, love. The doctor said it, not me.”

“I _can’t_ , Martin,” Jon spits, clutching at his side when the shouting pulls at it. “I’ve already told you, I _can’t_.”

“If you can’t, then I need to take you to A&E right now.”

Stunned, Jon’s eyes widen as he stares up at him. Is he _seriously_ going to be this way? Heat rises to bring a flush to his face, a sheen to his eyes as Martin dares to lower himself to sitting on the coffee table facing him.

“Look, I’ll help you, alright?” he adds softly, resting his chin on folded hands. “Just a minute or two, and you can lean on me. It’s nearly time for meds again, too—you can wait for those to kick in first.”

_Shut. Up._

“You don’t understand,” Jon mutters under his breath, turning away to stare into his kitchen, at nothing. Cannot bear to meet Martin’s eyes anymore. “You never do.”

Silence.

He had twisted the knife, and it felt so _good._

_What?_

_What are you doing?_

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Even better—now, Martin is angry too.

_Stop stop stop_

“I said I can’t do it, and you don’t even care.”

“That’s not true—”

“You just want me to—to spring back up and be fine, but I _can’t._ I can’t just be ‘fine’ for your sake anymore, _Martin.”_

“Wh—I would _never—”_

“You can’t just gloss over this like you always do! And act like—like tea and a lovely little walk and a good cry is going to fix everything. It’s _not.”_

Whatever Martin was going to say dies on his tongue as his mouth snaps shut, eyes blown wide and full of hurt. Regret begins to settle deep, deep in Jon’s stomach, insidious, sure to poison him with guilt when the anger has faded. For now, however—the screaming of his side is much louder, the pain easing the flow of bitter words through his lips.

Martin turns away for a few moments, drumming his fingers atop his knees, before moving to stand.

_Angry. He’s angry._

“I’m gonna go home for a while,” he says, voice intentionally kept low as he rummages quickly through the kitchen. “I think we could both do with some space.”

All at once, everything gives way to fatigue and pain and the sorrow of being alone.

_Don’t leave,_ he wants to say. _You didn’t deserve any of that._

But his stubbornness wins out by a hair. He remains silent as Martin sets a collection of things on the coffee table in front of him, heart rising to pound in his throat.

“Meds, water, Lucozade, crackers, ice pack,” he lists, setting each one down with perhaps a bit more force than necessary. “Your cane is propped up behind you. And I made you a smoothie that’s in the fridge, but I can bring it to you later.”

“Martin—”

“Call if you need anything. I’ll be back in a bit.”

The door closes shut behind him, carefully not-slammed, leaving ripples in the dust floating through the sunbeams.

Shame fills Jon’s mouth with copper as he drinks in the silence.

—

“Alright, dinner is served, lads.”

At Tim’s call from the kitchen, Jon searches around for his cane, before Martin strides over to him, carrying it in one hand. As much as Jon would love to keep looking at him, the motion of his silhouette approaching, backlit by the kitchen sends something in his head swimming—and something a bit more intense in his stomach.

_Just be fine. You’re fine. They made you dinner, and you’ll be fine._

“Okay, Jon?” Martin asks with a slight frown, bending down a bit to better see his face. “You look a bit peaky.”

“Fine, I’m fine,” he assures, praying that his words will become a truth.

“Are you sure? We can wait a bit if you’re not—”

“I’m _fine.”_

He rises to standing, staunchly ignoring the way the lights from the kitchen seem to pulse in his vision, leaning heavily against his cane to steady himself. It seems this display was rather unconvincing to Martin—as his arms shoot up to hover around him, at the ready to catch him should he stumble.

“Ooh, careful, love—”

“Fine.”

Finding both his courage and his balance, Jon makes his way into the kitchen, smile plastered on hastily to cover the rising nausea at the intensity of the smell of cooking. It wouldn’t do to disappoint Tim too—especially after he had gone to the trouble of making one of his favorites. But right now, the thought of even looking at a plate of mansef sets his stomach roiling.

_You’re okay. You’re okay._

—

He wasn’t.

An hour’s time finds him losing what little he had managed to eat, huddled in the bathroom and hunched over the renewed lance in his side. And, embarrassingly, Tim holding a steady hand to his back, the other trying to rein in all the loose ends of his curls.

“Easy, easy now.”

Desperate not to lose anything else, Jon braces against the seat, his breaths picking up speed. God, how humiliating—can’t even keep composure for an hour; can’t even appreciate the dinner Tim had—

_Fuck._

He leans over again and loses the rest of it, and then some.

“Aw, boss,” Tim mutters, barely audible above the rushing in his ears, rubbing a soothing hand over the uncontrollable shaking of his shoulders. “That’s miserable.”

“M’sorry.”

“Stop that.”

For a few moments, Tim seems to move in a peripheral blur. Another silhouette to dizzy him, and Jon is forced to close his eyes, blocking the light by pressing into his folded arms on the seat. Never in his life has he wished so desperately to be alone. Even from Martin, even from Tim.

A glass clinks on the tile to his right, and a tap on his shoulder brings him the offer of a wet flannel. And Tim’s face, carefully schooled to conceal his concern, letting him save what little dignity he has left to his name. Wordlessly, Jon takes the flannel and wipes at his mouth, before taking a tremulous sip of the water.

“Sorry,” he repeats, because of course he must. “Disgusting.”

“Sure,” Tim chuckles, coming to sit cross-legged on the floor beside him. “Seen worse though, haven’t we?”

They had, it was true—but it does not change the overwhelming shame of the moment to Jon in the slightest. Without eliciting a smile, Tim drops his own, opting to tilt his head onto one hand.

“It’s alright, Jon. Happens to everyone. No biggie.”

Silence is all his has to offer, overwhelmed—and thank god, Tim seems to take the hint.

“I’ll give you a moment, then,” he murmurs as he stands. “Be back to check on you in a few.”

_Wait._

“Tim,” Jon calls as he turns away toward the door. “Don’t—don’t tell Martin. Please.”

Tim’s eyes intensely search his own, looking for some reason he shouldn’t tell Jon’s napping boyfriend that he had gotten ill again. Something of his shame must show in his face—for after a moment’s pause, Tim nods, pressing his mouth into a thin line.

“Sure thing, boss.”

With that, Tim at last makes his exit—and Jon breathes in the relief of solitude.

—

“What do you say we go out for a bit? Maybe grab a coffee, or something?”

From behind the small barricade of supplies Jon is organizing around himself, he catches Martin’s eye—offering him the kind of glare that ought to do all the talking for him.

“Wow, okay, _that’s_ quite a look.”

_It better be._

Rather than speak his frustration aloud, Jon opts to give a quick huff of impatience, turning back to the job _they both ought to be doing_ —preparing their supplies for the journey into the tunnels writhing beneath them, perhaps changing at every moment, perhaps burying every last clue that might inform them of Elias’ whereabouts as they continue to dawdle. He knows _why_ ; of course he does. Martin and Tim are both so goddamn overprotective it’s bound to drive anyone mad.

Fragile. That’s how they’re treating him.

_They’ll never know how wrong they are._

“Look, Jon—”

“Stop. Just—whatever you’re about to say, _stop.”_

He returns Martin’s shock-widened gaze with one of vitriol, allowing the seething anger from deep, deep in his gut to pool in his face.

“Listen to me. I don’t need a break, or a lie down, or whatever you and Tim have decided would be ‘best for me,’” he spits. “I’ll do this without either of you if I have to.”

Pointedly, he looks back down at his work—a show of what Martin ought to be doing with him. Expects a raised voice targeted at him, braces for it.

It never comes. A few moments of silence pass, and Jon very nearly looks up, certain to see the space where Martin had stood unoccupied, until—

“What do you need?” comes the lowered voice that steps over the supplies, crouches next to him. “Just tell me, and I’ll do it.”

“Martin—”

“ _After_ you eat some food, and have something to drink. Deal?”

The anger bubbles up again within him, threatening to lash out against this—this _undeserved gentleness_ that he could hardly bear. _Why_ will Martin not fight back? He is ordinarily more than willing; will _start_ fights even—

_Ah._

_Fragile._

_Right._

He allows himself a moment to feel it—the unrelenting frustration of too many days of being looked after, and too few nights of sleep. Tensing in every muscle, pouring through his veins like molten lead.

And he breathes it in. And lets it go.

“Alright,” he sighs, standing slowly, refusing Martin’s offered hand. “We’ll talk over lunch. And then it’s back to work.”

“I can live with that, I think,” Martin says as he follows him out of the room, a smile evident in his tone.

Not for the first time in the many long weeks of his recovery, Jon cannot bring himself to turn and look.

—

—

_Martin._

_God._

Ahead of him, Tim leads the way, torch scanning wildly at every fork in their path. Shoulders still squared. Angry, naturally.

_Suppose I deserve that._

Martin follows only a short distance behind, walking as though attached to a set track, every movement carefully tailored to set his expression as neutral as possible, even without seeing his face. Defensive—perhaps angry as well. But schooled into something close-lipped and gentle-gestured for now; whether for his own sake or for Jon’s is anyone’s guess.

Not brooding, not really. Silence for Martin is a kind of forced emptiness—the kind Jon knows it is currently his obligation to fill. Steeling himself for the worst with a deep breath, Jon quickens his pace ever so slightly to catch up.

“Martin,” he begins softly, and Martin’s mouth presses into a tight line at the sound, not looking at him. “I-I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that, I was just…just angry.”

“Okay.”

His reply is short, in a way that clearly indicates that whatever he had said, no matter how it felt—it wasn’t enough.

“I…know that I haven’t been…fair to you, exactly.”

Martin lets out a small and bitter chuckle—a minuscule shake of the head.

_Definitely angry, then._

“I know I’ve been difficult,” he continues quickly, hoping that somehow, this time, he will find the right thing to say. “Always, but. Especially now. And you don’t—Martin, you don’t deserve that. And I’m sorry.”

A few heart-pounding moments pass as they walk in tandem, Martin’s face still unreadable as he scans the path ahead. Immediately, Jon recognizes the signs of a feeling quickly buried; shoved down down down somewhere in Martin’s psyche with all the rest of it—enough for him to turn and offer him a smile.

It doesn’t quite reach his eyes; it’s not a true smile at all. But it’s a start.

“We’ll talk about this later, okay?” he says, slowing to a stop—and pressing a kiss to the top of Jon’s wild curls. “Thanks for apologizing.”

It should make him feel better, right? Comforted in the fact that they will talk about it, and they will find a way to make this okay. But still, a knot of unease sinks like a stone in his gut, makes him desperate to grab Martin’s hand, if only to make sure he will hold it. If he weren’t juggling both his cane and his torch at the moment, perhaps he would.

For now…for now, he must swallow the dread and carry on. Something at which he has become particularly skilled, of late.

_Breathe it in, and let it go._

_Let it go._

—

Jon has lost count of the number of times he’s prayed he would never end up in these tunnels again.

Memories of worms, of doors that _weren’t doors,_ of blood and bullets and the _thing_ that dared to take the shape of their friend. To steal her. To _eat_ her.

It turns his stomach at once.

Even in the dim of the torch light, he can see the same remembrances written across the faces of Tim and Martin, grey and worn. The gravity is captured in the silence between them; a necessity if they are all to keep calm and together and not let this place tear them apart again. If he knows anything at all, Jon knows that he cannot go through that a second time. Not down here—that much is for certain.

_You’re not alone. They’re not going to leave you._

_They wouldn’t. Not anymore._

Another jolt in his stomach demands a sharp inhale to drive back the ever-growing nausea. Too loud, apparently—as both men in front throw him a backwards glance of concern, slowing to a stop at once.

“Alright?” Tim asks roughly, still steely and stone-faced even as he makes known his worry. Just trying to get through. Tim’s default state of being.

“Fine, sorry,” he assures at once, pointedly refusing to stop walking. “Something in my throat.”

“Stop saying you’re fine,” Tim growls, face growing red. “That’s bullshit, Jon.”

“ _Alright_ —alright alright.” Martin steps quickly between them, hand raised in protest. “Drop it. Both of you.”

Although Jon rather feels for once that he did nothing to earn such a scolding, he snaps his mouth shut all the same.

“Let’s just keep going. We’re almost to—well. We’re close, I think. And then we can get out of here and never come back, and all argue and nag as much as we want, hmm?”

Jon sees the growing pallor of Martin’s face, the faltering mask over whatever distress he’s trying so desperately to hide—and it hits him. In a sudden wave of recollection, he hears Martin’s statement regarding the Prentiss incident in his mind—

_“That’s where you found her?”_

_“Yes. She was sat in a wooden chair in the middle of the room. No worms. No cobwebs. Just…an old corpse. Gertrude Robinson. She was slumped forward, but I could see her mouth hanging open. So I ran—”_

Of course.

“Martin, are you—”

“Fine, I’m fine,” Martin assures Tim altogether too quickly, snapping a glare of warning against him saying another word about it. “Just. Let’s go, okay?”

“Okay,” he replies quietly, the look of concern never leaving his eyes as he turns on his heel to keep moving. Jon presses a careful hand against the small of Martin’s back, relieved when he does not flinch away. A small comfort, perhaps—but a comfort all the same.

_T_ _ͅ_ _h_ _͈_ _ér_ _͍̈_ _́e̒_ _̾_ _͈ͬ_ _i_ _͉͐ͫ_ _s_ _̫̯_ _̃_ _͉͉ͤ_ _s_ _̝̖̏_ _oṁ_ _̘͕̠_ _e̜̥͗_ _ͣ_ _t_ _̙̒ͧ_ _̉ĥ_ _̠̰͒_ _ḭ_ _̐̓ͅ_ _n_ _͍̫̿ͤ_ _g_ _̟̝ͥ̒_ _̇̑_ _͊̂_ _d̯_ _̝̟͐_ _o_ _̺͙̊̄_ _ẘ_ _͉̜͓_ _ń̆́_ _ͧ_ _͈͖͂̌_ _h_ _͓_ _̣̀_ _̍_ _e̬_ _͚̓̐_ _r̊_ _͌̅ͤ_ _e_ _̠ͧͅ_ _̪͚̰_ _w_ _͎̓͊_ _i_ _̼̹ͯ_ _t_ _ͮ̐_ _h̃_ _͆_ _̂_ _ͭ_ _ȳ_ _͈_ _o_ _̼_ _u_ _͛_ _.̋_

_H̎i͐d͑ị̳n̟̻g͖͆ ̮̹̐i̖ͥͧṅ̼̒ ̪̺̊t̥̳̾h̬̺ͬe̠̯̔̎ ̻̥̍̍c̤̣̲ͥȯ̒̍̽r͖ͣ̆̚ñ͎̩̟ȇ̗̅̾ṙ͇̞̯ ̙̱̅ͯó̱͈f̼̪̪ ͎̩͒ỵ͉̄o̲ͥ̃u͇̫ṟ͈ ̣̑e̍ͪy̓é.̅_

The Eye’s distorted voice fills his head with static, sinking from the nape of his neck and down into his stomach. All of it at once filling his legs with cement and pushing him to _run run run._ But he can’t—not with Tim and Martin here, not when the only reason his heart is not beating right out of his chest is because it is anchored, steadfastly, by them. He is safe with them. He is safe with them.

Isn’t he?

He swallows against the ever-rising nausea, knowing the others are doing the same, and keeps going.

—

A door stands before them, the only one to be seen in the entire length of the tunnels thus far. Although Jon could not help but feel that there were others—hidden, just out of sight, unable to be opened _until the proper moment._

Whatever that meant.

For all he knew, this might as well have been one of those false doors—had Martin not reacted so strongly upon seeing it.

“Are you sure this is it?” Tim asks as he kneels to begin picking the lock, imposed after the police had sealed the room off as a crime scene.

“Yes, _Tim_ , it’s the only _fucking_ door in this godforsaken—”

“ _Woah_ , alright, alright,” Tim soothes, eyes widening at the outburst, full of concern at the breaking of Martin’s voice over the words.

“Sorry, god, I’m— _ha_ , sorry,” he breathes, bracing hands over shaking knees as his face continues to grow ever paler.

“Just—take a moment,” says Jon, setting what he hopes is a bracing hand against Martin’s back, guiding him to sitting against the wall of the corridor. “You’re alright.”

At once, Martin drops his head between his knees, trying desperately to control his ever-quickening breath.

“S-sorry, dunno why—”

“Hush, love. Just breathe.”

Jon continues his slow motions over Martin’s back, sending a quick nod to Tim to keep working on the lock. He’s got this, of course he does—and the sooner they get out of there, the better.

_C̓o̩rͨn̐̉e̘ͤr͎̊ ͊͗o͈͛f͓͑ ̖̊y̖̳o͐͒u̼͛rͭͅ ͚̊ėy̑ẹ.͔_ _  
_

_Stop it stop it stop it_

Breathing slowly turns out to be an exercise for them both, Jon at once desperate to squeeze shut his eyes and keep out the shadows playing at the edges of his perception, and yet unable to look away. Martin needs him, Tim needs him—and if the Eye is right, if there is something down here…well, he certainly would not blind himself to it.

No. He will keep calm, and he will sit with Martin, and they will brace together against what will come.

Something moves across his vision.

_C̓o̩rͨn̐̉e̘ͤr͎̊ ͊͗o͈͛f͓͑ ̖̊y̖̳o͐͒u̼͛rͭͅ ͚̊ėy̑ẹ.͔_ _  
_

_C̓o̩rͨn̐̉e̘ͤr͎̊ ͊͗o͈͛f͓͑ ̖̊y̖̳o͐͒u̼͛rͭͅ ͚̊ėy̑ẹ.͔_ _  
_

_Nothing there._

_There’s nothing there._

In and out; in and out—a fistful of Martin’s shirt in his grasp and dust in his mouth. And nothing else. There is nothing else. Nothing but the gaping maw of an ever-darkening corridor, and whatever remains here, slinking around within it.

_Th͈ér͍̈́e̒̾ ͈ͬi͉͐ͫs̫̯̃ ͉͉ͤs̝̖̏o̒̈̔ṁ̘͕̠e̜̥͗ͣt̙̒ͧ̉ĥ̠̰͒ḭ̐̓ͅn͍̫̿ͤg̟̝ͥ̒ ̇̑͊̂d̯̝̟͐o̺͙̊̄ẘ͉̜͓ń̆́ͧ ͈͖͂̌h͓̣̀̍e̬͚̓̐r̊͌̅ͤe̠ͧͅ ̪͚̰w͎̓͊i̼̹ͯtͮ̐h̃͆ ̂ͭȳ͈o̼u͛.̋_

“Got it,” Tim says in a near whisper, and yet they both flinch. Martin’s head shoots up from between his knees to look, panic shifting into steel, meeting Tim’s eyes as he stands ready to open the door. It’s enough to jolt Jon back to the present for the moment, and he finds himself blinking rapidly in the light which he swears had gotten brighter since last he had looked.

“Ready?”

Martin merely lets out a grim bark of a laugh, hollow in his chest.

“Right.”

Lifting himself to standing on somewhat sturdier legs than the few minutes previous, Martin reaches a hand down to help Jon to his feet.

“Let’s just get on with it,” Martin murmurs, giving Tim a nod of determination.

Tim searches his face for a moment, dark eyes running over pallid skin—before turning to open the door.

Beyond the rusting metal of the door lies a small room, ceilings much lower than the rest of the tunnels. The few boxes that remain from the police search sit upturned and presumably empty, the shelves around them bare and dust-laden—and Jon’s heart sinks as he begins to realize they’ve come all this way for nothing. Braved the tunnels for nothing. _Put them in danger_ for nothing.

Until he sees the chair at the center of the room—upon which Gertrude had been found—begin to bleed.

Cracks opening along the grain of the woodwork, it oozes, begins to drip onto the floor; the smell of blood mixes with the damp and the sweat and the static—

“Jon?”

Barely audible above the rushing in his ears, Jon turns wildly toward the sound, feeling his heart thudding painfully against the walls of his chest. Martin, to be sure—but something is in the _cͫo̫r̠n̪ͯê̚r̦̔ ̗̞o͓͆f͓͕ ̃ͨh̳̓iͥͪs͓ͭ ̲e̙y̭e̒_ , and his eyes land on Tim instead.

And his face is _wrong._

It’s _not Tim,_ cannot be—the icy dread crawls up his back like a thousand tiny hands touching, grabbing, pulling him to whirl around and warn Martin—

It is not Martin’s face. Grinning and dripping and _wrong wrong wrong—_

“Jon?”

_Get out get out get out_

There’s nothing for it—what choice is there but to run, away from these imposters, these creeping mockeries he had somehow failed to notice leading him down to the killing floor. He drops his cane at once and bolts, back through the door, down the corridor, hoping to god some bit of wits he has left will carry him out beyond the pounding of panic behind his eyes and shooting pain in his leg and screaming of incisions in his side.

The grasping hands haven’t stopped. Eyes everywhere, in the walls, the floor, his mind—Elias is _watching watching always watching_ —

“Jon?”

_Martin—_

_Martin?_

**_“I see you.”_ **

_FUCK FUCK FUCK_

_NONONO NOT SASHA IT’S NOT SASHA IT CAN’T SASHA_

Faster now, faster than he has ever run—how could that _thing_ still be alive, still be down here? He knew—he _knew_ someone had been following them. He _knew_ something was wrong and he did nothing, and now—

Now he is going to be eaten, just as she was.

Just as he had doomed her to be.

_Stop stop stop_

**_“Oh, Jooooooon!”_ **

Focus—he’s got to focus. His bad leg starts to give out on him, vision beginning to fade at the edges, enhancing the movement of the shadows all around. Trapped. An animal in a cage; a rat in a maze; a sheep led to slaughter.

He falls.

Surrounded.

Blood wells up from the cracks in the floor where he lies, coating him in the guilt, the punishment that is rightfully his. She is gaining on him, and he knows it—eyes opening on every inch of the wall visible in the torch light—

**“I SEE YOU I SEE YOU I SEE YOU I SEE— _”_**

Nothing but the blood in his ears and the voice of the imposter in his head—and even that fades out as his head hits the seeping earth and he knows no more.

—

“Jon? Hey, you with us?”

Eyes heavy, Jon comes slowly back to himself lying flat on the stone earth, every inch of his body throbbing with pain. Blurring and refocusing over and over again as he blinks the haziness out of his eyes—he does not know how much time passes before he truly regains his awareness.

Enough to feel Martin’s hand in his own, the other stroking through his hair. Enough to see Tim’s purpling black eye.

“Ti—d-did I—”

“What the _hell_ were you thinking?” Tim shouts, the words reverberating through his skull and into the ground beneath him. “You go on and on about us leaving you alone and then you fucking _run—_ ”

_“Stop it,”_ Martin shouts back, glaring daggers at him, and Jon flinches again. “I won’t just let you keep going on the attack like this—”

“ _Fine!_ Fine. Jon. What. Happened,” he hisses in a lower tone, eyes still blazing. Martin growls low with anger, fists clenched, and stands, walking away for a moment to collect himself.

“I-I…I don’t—”

Jon’s head is swimming, consciousness only just breaking the surface, the unbearable pain and fatigue threatening to pull him back down again at any moment.

“You ran, Jon,” comes Martin’s forcibly calm voice from somewhere behind his head. “You bolted like—like you were spooked or something. It was probably—well, we don’t know but. We think there’s some carbon monoxide down here. Got to you. Got to us a bit, too.”

“I…ran?”

It takes a moment or two of closing his eyes, brow furrowed as he tries to reunify his scattered thoughts, before he remembers.

_Blood._

_Blood everywhere, running over the chair, the floor, the walls—_

_The eyes, the **Looking** —_

_Twisting the faces of his friends._

_Imposters._

_Sasha._

“She’s here,” he manages to mumble at last. “Sasha.”

“Wh-what?” Tim chokes, turning quickly to shine his torch down the tunnels behind him.

“No, she’s not,” Martin says firmly, kneeling down to his eye level. “Tim, look at me. She’s not.”

“But—”

“No. Hallucinations, remember? Carbon monoxide.”

A few deep breaths, Martin’s hand on his shoulder, a glaze passes over his eyes as he tries to pull it together. Grief for his friend, another loved one fallen prey to the Stranger.

_Your fault,_ Jon’s mind offers him as it continues to regain clarity. _Your fault she’s dead, your fault that thing still lives, your fault Tim is grasping at straws trying to hang on while you make it all worse worse worse—_

“Come over here, Tim. There’s a bit of air flow here.”

Blinking rapidly for a few moments, Tim at last looks up to see Martin’s hand reaching for him, and takes it. From his vantage point, Jon can see his legs shaking even through the blurriness of his vision—and he staggers just a bit into Martin as he helps him over the feel the draft.

“There we go. That’s better. Take some deep breaths, alright?”

Shuddering inhale-exhales fill the silence, echoing down down down the tunnels. So rare is it to hear this kind of vulnerability from Tim that it jolts Jon back into fullness of mind—or perhaps it is the draft of fresh air after all. He begins to sit up, slowly, ever so slowly, and sets his head back against the walls of the tunnel when the room begins to spin again.

“Alright?” Martin asks in a near whisper.

“Fine, fine,” Jon reassures at once, whether it’s entirely true or not.

_Just be fine._

_You’re fine._

_Have to be._

“Can you—you know, _See_ anything?” Tim asks after a few moments, voice rasping. “We’re lost now, if you hadn’t noticed.”

He hadn’t, to be frank. Every last corridor of these tunnels looks the same, and for all the nights he had gotten himself stuck down here, it seems he has no recollection of any of it.

“I can—I can try to look.”

Closing his eyes with a deep inhale, Jon does his best to open his mind, open the door of knowledge, of memory—

And he drowns.

—

“Oh, _shit shit shit.”_

“Jon! Hey, back with us, come on.”

“Wh—h’pened?”

Eyes once heavy now cast in lead, Jon at last manages to pry them open. Martin’s face, lined with worry, leans in close to his own, with Tim’s not far behind.

_Why are they so worried?_

_What—_

“Okay, that was bad,” Tim shudders, the tremble in his voice setting Jon on high alert at once. “Let’s—let’s wait a bit. I’m sorry.”

His voice comes from behind a wall of static, impossible to keep back, some part of the Eye restless to reach its servant even in the depths of this place. It cannot find him here, not really—and never has Jon been more acutely aware of it than in this moment of ceaseless _pulling pulling pulling,_ impossible to focus, nearly impossible to see.

Except for Martin’s leg, bouncing violently in his peripheral vision.

“Wh’swrong?” he asks, words not quite formed. “M’tin?”

“Erm—nothing, nothing,” he assures tremulously, entirely unconvincing. “Fine.”

“You don’t look it,” says Tim. “What’s going on?”

No answer—only the continued bouncing of his knee as Martin extends a hand toward the wall, reaching for something unseen. Tim and Jon exchange furtive glances at once.

“Martin—you’re hallucinating, it’s alright.”

“N-no— _heh_ ,” he stutters, trying to smile. “I just—nothing, just rest for now. It’s alright.”

“Martin. What’s going on?”

Tim’s voice is hard, demanding. As their eyes lock, the dread in Martin’s face begins to grow—and reflects upon Tim’s face as he replies:

“I’ve…I’ve lost the draft. It’s gone.”

“What are you talking about? It was right—”

A rumble, deep in the belly of the labyrinth—shifting, grinding. And—

Laughter. Echoing, laced with static.

_No._

_No, please—_

“Wh-what’s going—”

The walls around them begin change, swirl, _spiral_ —and down down down they go, into whatever abyss lies in wait for them.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Fear and Consequences: Podfic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27199282) by [rosy_cheekx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosy_cheekx/pseuds/rosy_cheekx)




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